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,0O, 



POEMS AND ADDRESSES 



OF 



Charles J. Barrett, 

LATE STATE DEPUTY 

OF THE KNIGHTS OF COLUMBUS 

OF NEW JERSEY. 



"O may I join the choir invisible 
Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence 

feed pure love. 

Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 

Be the sweet presence of a good dififused 

And in diffusion evermore intense. 

So shall I join the choir invisible 

Whose music is the gladness of the world." 



PUBLISHED BY 

Charles J. Barrett Memorial Committee 

OF THE 

New Jersey State Counol, 

Knights of Columbus. 

igo8. 






tClBHARY of OON'iSESS 
I wo Cooies Kecavea 

JUL 15 1908 

CLASt. CX aXc. k^ 
COPY tJ. 



Copyright, 1908 

By the Barrett Memorial Committee 

OF THE New Jersey State Council 

OF THE Knights of Columbus 



PRESS OF THF ORANGE JOURNAL 
ORANGE, N. J. 



Contents; 



PAGE 

Charles J. Barrett — Record of his death and 

services 3 

Editorial Tribute of The Columbiad 6 

Funeral Services 10 

Eulogy by the Rev. James T. Brown 11 

Poems 

Proem — the Poet's Defence 21 

Who Are the Knights of Columbus? 22 

Knights of Columbus 26 

Columbus 26 

Embarkation Day 27 

For the Hopeful 30 

Flag of My Land, I Love Thee 32 

Independence Day 33 

Memento Mori 35 

Adrienne (Mr. Barrett's younger sister) 37 

Katherine (one of Mr. Barrett's children) 39 

Mother of Sorrows 40 

For Her Birthday 40 

If I Had Never Known 41 

Sweet Alice 42 

The Hills of Sussex 44 

In the Silence 47 

Thanksgiving 48 

■Beyond the Tide 49 

A Voice from the Garden 51 

At the Door 53 

Minnehaha 53 

In the New Life, June 22, 1900 55 

Walden 58 

Verses for the Silver Jubilee of the Rev. H. P. 

Fleming 60 



CONTENTS 

Love's Sorrow (to M. F. W.) 63 

Ode for the Village Hall 64 

A Ballade of a Bird 68 

Ballade of the End of May 69 

To a Babe 7° 

Madeleine (one of Mr. Barrett's daughters) 72 

To Kathryn 74 

To Anna (a friend's infant daughter) 75 

Rosemary 17 

At the Grave (W. F. J., June 20, 1890) 78 

After Bereavement 80 

To a Friend 81 

In Sight of Home 82 

Shakespeare 83 

The Old Year and the New 87 

The Poet 89 

The Love of the Irish Girl 90 

The Whippoorwill 9^ 

To a Child 9^ 

To a Vanished Singer 94 

With a Flower 95 

With Laughter and Song (^Rondeau) 97 

Ronald 97 

Orpheus and Eurydice 98 

My Love Lies Dreaming 100 

Oh ! Gleaming Star ! 102 

Idyls of the Heart I03 

Lilith (A Legend) 107 

Life and Death no 

John McCuUough 112 

] n Memoriam no 

In an Album 1^7 

Easter "9 

Claudian (To Wilson Barrett) 121 

Christmas Eve 122 

Broken Trust 1^3 

Ballade of the Wistful Heart 125 

Ballade of Old Songs 126 

Anderson as Juliet 127 



CONTENTS 

A Memory of Tennyson 127 

A Christmas Card 128 

Alfred Tennyson 130 

A Dream 130 

A Ballade of Players 133 

Translation — Ballade of Dead Ladies 134 

Entitled : The War Horses 135 

The Kmg of Thule 135 

The Two Paths 136 

Manila Bay 137 

Poem of the Anniversary Dinner of the Third 

Battalion, Veterans' Association 139 

Woman (Written to a Friend) 143 

Addresses 

Memorial Address (To Newark Council, K. of C.) 149 

Our Order (Response to a toast) 154 

Our Country 159 

Memorial Address (Delivered at K. of C. Memo- 
rial Meeting, Newark) 164 

The Irish American (A St. Patrick's Day address) 172 

The Ideals of Youth 177 

Our Present Duty (Delivered before City of 

Orange, K. of C.) 181 

New Jersey (Response to toast at Elizabeth) . . . 190 
Fragments of Speeches — 

At Trenton Council, K. of C 195 

At Jersey City 197 

A Lecture on John Boyle O'Reilly 197 

Columbus (Anniversary oration) 214 

At the End — A Poem 224 

Note bv Committee 228 



Cfjarlcs! f . JIarrett 

( From the Columbiad, official journal of the Knights of 
Columbue, issue of June, 1907.) 



May 14 was a day of grief and sadness for the New 
Jersey membership, for it marked the passing away of 
one of Nature's noblemen, their beloved State Deputy — 
Charles J. Barrett. 

Within an hour after the close of the State Conven- 
tion, which had unanimously re-elected him to the office 
of State Deputy, filled by him during the past year with 
honor to himself and to the Order, he died of septic 
pneumonia, and an occasion that was to have been one 
of joy and merriment, was turned to deepest gloom. 

The fact that State Deputy Barrett was lying criti- 
cally ill at his home in South Orange, was communi- 
cated to the delegates as soon as the convention, which 
met in Jersey City, had assembled, and fervent prayers 
were offered for his recovery, but without avail, for 
shortly after adjournment the dreaded announcement 
of the State Deputy's death was received. It created 
profound sorrow among the Knights, many of whom 
were visibly affected, for State Deputy Barrett was 
deeply beloved by them all. It was hard to realize that 
they would see him in life no more ; that they would no 
longer feel the magnetic clasp of his hand ; that his 
great heart, in which the fires of love and kindness had 
ever burned brightly, was stilled ; that his lips, which 
had so often uttered golden words of wisdom and en- 
couragement, were sealed forever. Everywhere the 
news of his death occasioned intense regret, and on all 
sides were heard sincere expressions of sympathy and 
words of loving remembrance of one who had been a 
friend to many and an enemy to none. 



4 C11ARI.es J. BARRETT 

State Deputy Barrett had been ill but a week before 
his death. On Sunday, May 5, he exemplified the third 
degree at Washington, D. C, and caught a slight cold. 
On Monday he complained of not feeling well, but al- 
though he remained at home by advice of his physician 
no serious consequences were feared until Friday when 
pneumonia set in. From that time until Tuesday night 
he failed gradually. He had never spared himself when 
there was work to do, and his system, weakened by the 
demands made upon it, was unable to withstand the 
ravages of the disease. Calmly and peacefully he ap- 
proached the end, and in the gathering twilight of con- 
vention day he sank into that last long sleep which 
knows no earthly waking. 

Brother Barrett was forty-four years old. He was 
born in the old Barrett homestead on Valley Street, 
South Orange, and lived in that vicinity all his life. 

No member of the Order in New Jersey stood higher 
in the estimation of his brother Knights or his fellow 
citizens than did Charles J. Barrett. He was a Knight 
in all that the word implies — a consistent Catholic, an 
upright citizen, a true friend. He was the manliest of 
men. His beautiful home life was an example to all 
aboiit him. He lived and moved in an atmosphere in 
which love, kindness, and sympathy were ruling mo- 
tives. None who knew him but were glad to claim hi.^> 
friendship. 

Few men have been more abundantly blessed with 
nature's gifts than was he. His brilliant mind was a 
vast storehouse of knowledge and exquisite sentiment. 
He was a man of many scholarly attainments, a polished 
orator, a dramatist, and a poet of signal ability. His 
works include "Burroughs Forge," "Killeen Castle.' 
and many other plays written for amateur production, 
and all of which have been produced in Orange, also a 
book of splendid poems entitled "Verses Viridescent," 
which he wrote in collaboration with his brother, Tim- 
othy Barrett. His poems have frequently appeared In 
Catholic papers, to which he also occasionally contrib- 



CHARLES J. BARRETT 5 

uted special articles on current topics. His success as a 
playwright attracted the attention of theatrical man- 
agers who endeavored to secure his productions but 
without result, as he was averse to a professional use of 
his works. 

By profession Brother Barrett was a lawyer, and had 
a large and rapidly increasing practice. He was a grad- 
uate of the New York Law School, and after his ad- 
mission to the bar some years ago, opened an office in 
South Orange. Last February he was appointed village 
counsel. 

His advice was always sought in numicipal affairs in 
South Orange, and when it was decided to revise the 
village charter and compile laws affecting the village 
since 1872, he was selected to do the work. He served 
as Water Superintendent for several years, and was Tax 
Collector for eleven years. For twenty years he was 
Secretary of the South Orange Building and Loan As- 
sociation. He was collector and counsel of the Fire- 
men's Relief Association, and a member of the village 
fire department, and a former Vice-President of the 
Exempt Firemen's Association. 

An hour after his death the flags on the municipal 
buildings at South Orange were placed at half stafT and 
fire headquarters was draped in mourning. 

The cause of Columbianism appealed strongly to 
Brother Barrett and he labored incessantly and success- 
fully for its advancement. He became a member of the 
City of Orange Council about ten years ago and credit- 
ably filled the offices of Deputy Grand and Grand 
Knight, in which positions he manifested an enthus- 
iasm, an interest and a familiarity with the purposes of 
the Order that proved a source of perpetual inspiration 
to all his brother Knights. 

A year ago he was elected to the office of State 
Deputy and quickly demonstrated his great ability as an 
executive and a leader. He was always at the helm. 
He seemed to possess tireless energy and by his ex- 
ample and his efforts he added much to the glory and 



6 CHARLES J. BARRETT 

the greatness of the Order in his jurisdiction. 

In addition to his membership in the Knights of 
Columbus, he was afifiHated with South Orange Council, 
Royal Arcanum, and the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick. 

Bro. Barrett was a parishioner of the Church of Our 
Lady of Sorrows, South Orange, and a member of the 
Holy Name Society of that church. He was a devout 
Catholic and practiced his religion constantly and faith- 
fully. He took a special interest in the work of St. 
John"s Parochial School and recently he delivered the 
annual address to the graduates. 

The late State Deputy is survived by a widow and 
four children, to whom the deep sympathy of hosts of 
friends has been extended in their great grief. Hun- 
dreds of telegrams were received at the house on the 
night of his death. 

The funeral of the beloved leader who had fallen m 
the full bloom of manhood was attended by hundreds 
of Knights from all parts of the State, who by their 
presence testified to the great love which his many 
noble qualities had awakened in their hearts. 



Cf)arle£{ f , Parrett 

(Editorial Tribute of The Columbiad.) 



A noble leader has fallen in New Jersey. A great 
heart, whose every throb was in accord with and echoed 
the hopes of humanity, has been stilled forever. A bril- 
liant mind has given forth its last uplifting thought. 
For State Deputy Charles J. Barrett is dead and all that 
remains is his imperishable memory — the memory of a 
staunch and true Catholic, an ardent Knight, a superb 
citizen and a continual exponent of all that made for 
the betterment of mankind. Brother Barrett was of 
that type of men which can ill be spared from the great 
work which the world assigns to those with the brains 
and the will to perform it. Generously endowed with 



CHARLES J. BARRETT 7 

nature's best gifts, he gave freely of his talent and his 
energy to aid the common cause. He was an able law- 
yer, a brilliant orator, a poet and dramatist of recog- 
nized ability, but above all he was a man, kindly, gen- 
erous, sympathetic, helpful. His sincerity was always 
apparent. He was an indefatigable worker in behalf of 
Columbianism and a commanding figure in the Councils 
of the Order. As State Deputy his administration was 
most successful. His death, in the prime of manhood 
and in the midst of a career of brilliant promise, is a 
severe loss, not alone to the New Jersey membership, 
but to the entire Order. May he rest in peace ! 



(From the Newark Morning Star, May 15, 1907.) 



A few hours after his re-election as State Deputy of 
the Knights of Columbus, Charles J. Barrett died at his 
home, 400 Valley Street, South Orange, shortly after 5 
o'clock yesterday afternoon, of septic pneumonia. He 
had grown steadily weaker since becoming sick a week 
ago. 

The fatal illness was the result of a cold which he 
caught in Washington, D. C, where he went on Sunday, 
May 5, to confer the major degree. He returned on the 
following Monday and complained of feeling ill the next 
day and was compelled to remain in the house. A 
physician was summoned and nothing serious was 
thought to be the matter with him at the time, but on 
Friday pneumonia set in. Confidence was felt that he 
would recover and even at the convention yesterday, 
despite his critical condition, it was believed that he 
would soon be well and able to resume his duties which 
he fulfilled so well during the past year. The work of 
the State Deputy during the winter called for a great 
deal of night labor and traveling that weakened his 
system and the climax came on the trip to Washington. 

The news of his death spread like a flash through 
South Orange, and regrets were expressed everywhere. 



8 CHARLES J. BARRETT 

Mr. Barrett was the village counsel, and had served as 
water superintendent and tax collector for the last six- 
teen years. The flags on the village hall and on the 
liberty pole were placed at half-mast, and fire head- 
quarters were draped in mourning. 

Mr. Barrett was 44 years old, and was born in South 
Orange, in the old Barrett homestead, in the year 1863, 
a few doors from where he died. He had served as 
water superintendent since the water system was in- 
stalled in South Orange in 1891, and as tax collector for 
twelve years. Last February he was appointed village 
counsel, succeeding the late James McC. Morrow. He 
was also counsel for the South Orange Building and 
Loan Association, of which he was secretary since its 
organization, twenty years ago. He was also treasurer, 
counsel and collector for the village Firemen's Relief 
Association. He was a member of Hose Company No. 
2 and a former president of the fire department of his 
home village. He was also a member of the Exempt 
Firemen's Association. 

He was an orator and stumped the State for the 
Democratic party during the Presidential elections for 
Cleveland, Bryan and Parker, although he never was a 
candidate for any political office himself. He was an 
able writer and wrote a book of poems, with his 
brother, former Assemblyman Timothy Barrett. He 
also wrote several plays for amateur production, among 
them "Burroughs Forge," which was produced in 
Columbus Theatre, Orange, four years ago. He later 
had the play copyrighted and printed in book form. He 
wrote a book entitled "Verses Viridescent." He was a 
member of the Y. M. C. L. U. Dramatic Association 
of the Oranges in recent years. 

A feature of his playwriting was that he would never 
enter professionalism in writing. He himself had been 
on the amateur stage in the Oranges. For many years 
past he wrote cantatas which were produced at the 
annual commencements of St. John's Parochial School, 
Orange. He was a correspondent for the South 



CHARLES r. BARRETT 9 

Orange Bulletin for years and wrote a column called 
"Local Topics." He also contributed editorials to that 
paper. He also wrote verses and comments for tlie 
local Catholic papers. He was a great admirer of 
Edwin Booth, the celebrated actor, and had a picture of 
Booth hanging over his desk at his office in the Village 
Hall, South Orange. 

Mr. Barrett was the principal speaker at the Knights 
of Columbus celebration at Pittsburg, Pa., last January. 
He was a tnember of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick 
of the Oranges and delivered the principal address 
on March 17 last at a banquet given at the Orange 
Club. He compiled the village ordinances and also 
revised the village charter, with annotations of all the 
laws afifecting South Orange village passed by the Leg- 
islature since 1872, for which he was commended highly 
by the Village Board of Trustees. 

He was a member of the executive committee of the 
New Jersey State Firemen's Relief Association and a 
member of South Orange Council, Royal Arcanum. He 
was a member of the South Orange Democratic Club, 
and was vice-president of the Essex County Democratic 
League, which he was active in organizing a year ago. 

Mr. Barrett joined the City of Orange Council, 
Knights of Columbus, in 1897, ^"^ a year later became 
grand knight. He was re-elected the following year, 
and since worked his way to State Deputy. 

Mr. Barrett was a member of the Church of Our 
Lady of Sorrows, South Orange, and of the Holy Name 
Society connected with that church. He was a brother 
of Freeholder John Barrett, of South Orange. His 
sister is Miss Mary E. Barrett, principal of the First 
Street Public School, South Orange. 

A widow and four children survive him. The funeral, 
the arrangements for which will be announced later, will 
probably be held on Friday morning from the Church 
of Our Lady of Sorrows. Interment will be in the 
Cemetery of the Holy Sepulchre. 



lO CHARLES J. BARRETT 



Cfjarlesi 3, ^atxttV^ jFuneral 

(From the Newark Evening News, May 17, 1907.) 



Men prominent in every walk of life attended the 
funeral of State Deputy Charles J. Barrett, of the 
Knights of Columbus, this morning. Knights from 
every one of the forty-seven councils in the State were 
present and marched to the Church of Our Lady of Sor- 
rows, in South Orange, which was crowded to the 
doors. The village hall was closed, and as the funeral 
cortege passed the building the fire bell was tolled and 
the fire alarm sounded. 

The funeral was the largest in the history of the vil- 
lage. Two carriages laden with floral contributions led 
the way. 

The pallbearers were all members of the City of Or- 
ange Council, Knights of Columbus, as follows: Grand 
Knight Frank A. O'Connor, Chancellor James D. 
Moriarity, District Deputy Daniel A. Dugan, Trustee 
John T. Piatt, National Director James A. Burns and 
Past Deputy Grand Knight James P. Kelly. 

Rev. James J. Hall, rector of the Church of Our Lady 
of Sorrows, was the celebrant of the Gregorian mass ; 
Rev. Thomas A. Wallace, chancellor of the diocese, and 
representing Bishop O'Connor, was deacon of the mass ; 
Rev. Matthias J. McDonald, of St. John's Church, Or- 
ange, sub-deacon; Rev. Thomas J. Moran, of Arlington, 
assistant priest, and Rev. John M. McDonald, of the 
Church of Our Lady of Sorrows, master of ceremonies. 

A choir of Knights of Columbus responded to the 
mass and William Mullin sang "Calvary." 

Pointing to the life of Mr. Barrett as a model for 
every man, Rev. James T. Brown, rector of St. Rose of 
Lima's Church, Short Hills, in delivering a thoughtful 
and eloquent address, said in conclusion : 

"No eulogy is necessary ; his life was an eulogy and 



CHARLES J. BARRETT II 

words of praise are superfluous. He was a model for 
all Christians. * * * 

"There is no need to throw a mantle of charity over 
our respected friend. As a man, as a Christian, as a 
citizen, he had no superior in church or State. It is not 
for me to tell this community of the great loss sus- 
tained. Every one recognized that Charles J. Barrett's 
life was clean and his heart pure. In the Knights of 
Columbus he was second to no man in activity and 
every brother will carry him in his memory for many 
years to come."' 

Father Brown then recited a poem written by Mr. 
Barrett on the death of a friend, entitled "Lay 
Him to Sleep." The interment was in Holy Sepulchre 
Cemeterv. 



Culosp of Cftarleg J. JSarrett. 

Delivered By the Rev. James T. Brown, of Short 

Hills, N. J., at the Funeral Services in 

the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows, 

South Orange, May 17, 1907. 



There is no event more widespread, no fact more 
frequent, than that of death. Death stares us in the 
face at every point of our existence. Every day thou- 
sands of soldiers in the great army of life fall by the 
wayside. 

""Tis such a little time we walk together, 

Along life's way. 
Some weary feet that march beside us falter, 

Each passing day ; 
Dear friends that greet us in the morning, vanish 

Ere it is noon. 
And tender voices melt away in silence, 

A broken tune." 



12 CHARLES J. BARRETT 

How true it is then to say that in the very midst of 
life, we are in death. 

Our pagan ancestors, noticing this universaUty of 
death, came to the conclusion that death was an 
absolute and eternal law and denied that it was a 
penalty. We know better than that. Away back in 
the mysterious past the Three Persons of the God-head 
came together in council and said, "Let us make man to 
our own image and likeness." In the beginning man 
was immortal. So long as he maintained and preserved 
pure and unimpaired the image of God within him, so 
long was it impossible for him to taste death. 

The poet Milton in his sublime epic, tells us: 

"Of man's first disobedience and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world and all our woe." 

By one man, sin entered into the world and by sin 
death. "In what day soever thou shalt eat of the tree, 
thou shalt die the death ;" and then and there was read 
the death warrant of the whole human race. 

The hand writing of our mortality was penned at that 
fatal moment when Adam sinned and forgot his God ; 
and all future generations of men have since lived in 
fear and anticipation of death. "It is appointed for all 
men once to die, and after death the judgment." This 
decree is irrevocable and has a universal scope. It 
breaks down all the distinctions of place and power and 
pelf which the world may make. 

Men may live as kings, as autocrats, and be sur- 
rounded by all the luxuries that art can devise or wealth 
procure ; but they must all die as mere men. 

But is this death which all of us must one day meet, 
such a terrible thing? It is true that it is hard to 
break the bonds of relationship, of friendship, of love, 
which join us to the dead. Our hearts are wrenched 
with the pangs of separation from those we love, and 
they ache long afterwards with the sense of the irrev- 
ocable loss, the emptiness where once was the warmth. 



CHARLES J. BARRETT P3 

the comfort and the sustaining of human love. As 
long as we must love and lose we shall suffer. Our 
homes will still be houses of mourning, and we shall 
long, with an inexpressible yearning, for "the touch of 
the vanished hand, and the sovmd of the voice that is 
still." Nevertheless, while we grieve and that rightly, 
for the friends who have passed away, we realize that 
Christ our Lord has, by His resurrection from the dead, 
given to all true Christians a new and everlasting title 
to eternal life. All that death can do now is to take 
away our loved ones for a time, and give us the sorrow 
of separation. "For if," as St. Paul has said, "we believe 
that Jesus Christ died and rose again, even so them 
who have slept through Jesus, will God bring with Him. 
For the Lord Himself shall come down from heaven 
with commandment and with the voice of an archangel 
and with the trumpet of God, and the dead who are in 
Christ shall rise first. Wherefore comfort one another 
with these words." (St. Paul to Thess., Chapter IV, 

13. 15. I?-) 

The dear parents who have left us, to rest in their 
narrow beds in yonder cemetery, will not always lie 
there. The Lord is risen. The little child who nestled 
for a few brief days in our home, and then passed away, 
leaving in our lives a shadow, shall visit us again. The 
dear companion whose soul was twin with ours has not 
passed forever into the deep darkness of an unknown 
world. There will be a glorious resurrection morn, and 
although tears must now be shed and hearts must ache 
and friends must part, there is balm for every sorrow, 
there is ease for every pain and life for every death. 
Plence, it is, as Christians, we do not mourn like those 
who have no hope. 

And as we go with a dear kind father, mother, husband, 
wife, sister, brother or friend to the brink of eternity,, it 
is not overwhelming grief that we feel, but rather our 
sorrow is illumined by the sweet conviction that when 
this mortal shall have put on immortality and this cor- 



14 CHARLES J. BARRETT 

ruptible s^iall have put on incorruption, then shall come 
to pass the saying that is writt^: 

"O ! death ! where is thy victory, 
O! grave! where is thy sting?" 

Why should we then, who still breast the billows and 
bide the storm, sigh for the sailor who has found a se- 
cure haven ? By a voice which our own earthly ear might 
not hear, God called and the glorious immortal soul 
arose, put off its cumbrous garments and gained a vic- 
tory over death. Besides, death to the suffering body 
and weary heart is the herald of release. The dim 
eye seeks a long sleep ; "far frona the madding crowd's 
ignoble strife" our wearied frames are glad to seek the 
repose of the grave. The clay fabric, mysteriously 
tenanted by the spirit that sighs after immortality, is 
ready to dissolve and in a moment God giveth His 
beloved sleep. 

Nevertheless, death is a fearful thing. Not only be- 
cause of the fact, as the Inspired Word says, "After 
death comes the judgment," but because naturally it is 
the destruction of that physical and substantial union of 
the soul and body than which there is hardly anything 
more intimate, more close, more symmetrical in the 
whole range of nature. 

Death naturally brings to us that awful sense of 
loneliness, the most appalling that can encompass the 
human soul. And when we add to this the fact that 
we must meet God in judgment and give an account of 
our stewardship ; when we call to mind that our ever- 
lasting happiness or misery depends upon it, that the 
irrevocable sentence shall then be pronounced which 
shall consign us either to everlasting joy or everlasting 
punishment, surely there is no one who seriously re- 
flects, but must feel that with all the frailties of our 
human nature, it is absolutely necessary that we should 
prepare to meet death. By death we are summoned 
into the presence of the Almighty Creator and Sov- 
ereign of the earth, the Lord of Lords, the King of 



CHARLB6 J. BARRETT 1 5 

Kings, before whom Cherubim and Seraphim veil their 
faces and cry: "Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts ;" 
the all-seeing and all-righteous Judge of heaven and 
earth, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known 
and from whom no secrets are hid. Hence it is that 
the Church asks us so often to pray for the dead that 
they may be released from their sins. While death 
is for the perfect Christian merely the entrance to 
another life of joy and happiness, still the vast majority 
of mankind during their pilgrimage on this earth are 
covered more or less with the dust of sin, and this 
dust must be swept away not merely by our tears, but 
by our penance and our prayers. 

Another reason why we should be prepared to die is 
found in the uncertainty which surrounds the time and 
place of one's death. As Felicia Hemans so beautifully 
says, 

"Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
And stars to set, but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 
We know when moons shall wane. 

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea ; 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain, 

But who shall tell us when to look for Thee !" 

Nevertheless Death is certain. It comes to all ; from 
the tender bud of infancy to the sear and yellow leaf of 
human life. Whatever else is doubtful, this is true : "It 
is appointed for all men once to die, and after death the 
judgment." Death is a mystery vast and profound in 
its natural aspect. But much of its gloom is dispelled 
by the bright light of Christian hope. 

"Blithe poetess at the gateway of the soul. 

Dear friend that doth so fondly cling 

To even our worst of sorrows, 

Bark whose wing dauntlessly voyages to eternal goals, 

Heedless if it be rock, or shore, or shoal. 



l6 CHARLES J. BARRETT 

White bird that carrolest thine own unwearying trebles 

of song, 
Like those of new-born Spring lured heavenward 
From some blossom-tinted knoll. 
Ah ! Hope, thou art sweet when mad seas glass wild 

skies ; 
When earthquake, pest, riot in bitter glee, 
Or yet when tyranny tortures and enslaves, 
But sweeter when thy shape phantasmal flies 
A glorious Truth called Immortality, 
Over the darkness of earth's myriad graves." 

With him whose obsequies we are attending to-day, 
Christian hope was a favorite virtue. Hope was for 
him the pole star in the darkness of life. He anchored 
his life boat to Christian Hope. The life of man, dear 
Brothers, is twofold, one is present, the other future ; 
one is visible, the other invisible ; one is temporal, the 
other is spiritual ; one places us on the battlefield where 
we must fight, the other brings us to the great rewards 
of our labor; one is a brief passageway over the waves 
of the tempestuous world, the other is a haven of 
rest ; one is time, the other eternity. Christian hope 
leads our thoughts and strengthens our eyes to see the 
the light, the glorious light of that "life elysian whose 
portals we call death." 

True it is that no man knows whether he be worthy 
of love or hatred ; but to the Christian whose life has 
been based upon Divine faith, leavened by Christian 
charity and directed by Holy Hope, who has been 
fed by the bread of God's Word, whose life is an imita- 
tion of the life of Christ Himself, there is every moral 
certainty that the fwture as fac as he can influence it is 
secure, and confidingly he can commend his spirit into 
the hands of God. With hopefulness he can take the 
hand of the Angel of Death as that of a friend, and hail 
death as a sweet and welcome messenger that has come 
to deliver him from this ever decaying prison-house of 
clay, this frail, restless, mortal body on which time 



CHARLES J. PSARRETT I7 

wages perpetual war. Such I feel was the death of the 
friend and brother whom we mpurn to-day, for he was a 
Christian and a Christian's death was the reward of his 
life. Notwithstanding this cheerful assurance, we 
should pray for him in order that if any sin still pre- 
vents his entrance into the kingdom of heaven, and his 
soul is still an exile from its true country, he may 
speedily be granted a place of refreshment, light and 
peace. It is not necessary to go into any extended 
eulogy of the life of Charles J. Barrett. As far as we 
can judge, his life was his eulogy and words of praise 
are superfluous. In an hour like this I know he him- 
self would have disclaimed the language of eulogy. I 
think, however, I can most truly say that there was no 
man better fitted by reason of his many excellent quali- 
ties of head and heart to fill the highest positions of 
civil and social life than our Friend and Brother. He 
had a most refined mind, in unison with nature in her 
noblest and best forms. This spirit inspired his many 
speeches and poems. Brilliant in mind, there were very 
few men among us as richly endowed as he with talents 
so versatile. He would never admit for a moment 
that his high ideals of life, of honor and of justice would 
change. Like the seafaring man on the ocean directed 
by the stars, he chose these ideals as guides, and follow- 
ing them, he reached his high standard of Christian life 
and practice. 

Our deceased Brother never sought distinction or 
achieved fame by any extraordinary deed ; but he was 
an ideal man because he performed all the ordinary 
duties of life extraordinarily well. 

No mantle of char*ity need be thrown over our 
respected friend's life. It is not necessary for me to 
tell his fe-Ilow citizens gathered here, that a great loss 
has been sustained. 

The fife of Charles J. Barrett was clean and his heart 
pure. He was a credit to this city, to the State and to 
the Church. Among the Knights of Columbus he was 
second to none in fraternal activity, and he will be 



l8 CHARLES J. BARRETT 

carried in our memory with regard and affection for 
many, many years to come. 

Here and there throughout this address, I have 
dwelt upon the poetic sentiments which I often heard 
him quote, and it is a melancholy pleasure to add as a 
final word, an exquisite poem written by him in memory 
of one of his friends, particularly as this poetic gem at 
this sad and solemn moment may appropriately be ap- 
plied to himself. 
"Lay him to sleep, life's battles now are over; 
He lies beyond the touch of grief or tears ; 
The rosary of years 

Fall, one by one, with those who mourn for him. 
Hearts shall be desolate and eyes be dim. 
Wet with the memory of that absent face ; 
While thoughts shall fly across the waste of space, 
To where angels ever sentry keep — 
Beneath the budding grass and the clover, 

Lay him to sleep. 
Lay him to sleep, but tremulous and tender 
A voice across the dreary silence falls, 

Lentil its tone recalls 
(Faint as a song that murmurs through a dream) 
The thought of him we loved, and so we seem 
To listen to the voice we heard of yore, 
To see the face that looks upon the shore 
Where never sorrows come, nor mortals weep ; 
Beneath the lilies of the snowy splendor. 

Lay him to sleep. 
Lay him to sleep and in the summer hours 
Shall birds above his bed a requiem sing ! 

And in the dusk of spring 
The violet shall smile upon his tomb 
And sweeter and more fragrant flowers bloom ; 
The autumn winds shall moan, and there the snow 
Shall whiten all the sward where daisies grow 
And myrtles climb upon each moldering head 
Beneath the fragrance of th© summer flowers. 
Lay him to sleep. 



POEMS 21 



THE FOF.T S DEFENCE 



Nine years agone, with the May-time impassioned, 
Under the spell that a master-hand wrought, 
Fell the first buds of my fantasy ; fashioned 
In splendor of rhythm, and darkness of thought. 
Ah ! it was Fate that the buds should be broken, 
Thrown to the dust where the withered leaves lie, 
Lost to the world as a \yord that is spoken 
Under an Antarctic sky ! 

Once more I woo, in a still youthful manner 
The spirit I loved when the meadows were green, 
Fling to the breezes my golden-hued banner 
Broidered with lilies and poppies between. 
Over the waters that ripple and glisten 
Launch the bark bravely, with sails flowing free 
While the white waves stop their dancing to listen, 
Charmed on the breast of the sea ! 

Regret, like a shadow, still darkens these pages, 
Ghost-like and wan, like the faces in dreams. 
Filled with the breath of the romantic ages. 
Chilled with the splendor of Luna's cold beams. 
Only the sob of a self-stricken sorrow — 
Only the passionate promise of May — 
Only the visions that rise on a morrow 
Darker than ever to-day ! 

Yet, if the world judges light of my venture 
Never a sorrow my spirit shall own, 
Careless of critics, and fearless of censure 
My challenge is issued, the gauntlet is thrown ! 
Will the world listen, whatever the story? 
Time will sustain us, if fame is our due. 
Pass us in silence, or crown us with glory, 
Pansies, or laurel, or yew. 



22 POEMS 

So if a star was this moment created 
Flaming and bright as the crimson-clad Mars, 
Ages would roll, ere by Nature's laws fated 
Men saw its light, mid the light of the stars. 
Men may build bravely, but what is enduring? 
Use may destroy them — in darkness die some, 
What hopes are hidden within the immuring 
Heart of the wondrous to come ! 

Why should we rail at a feather-like fortune? 
Fixed is the fate which we each call our own. 
Why should we murmur and madly importune 
Heaven to keep us in sunshine alone ? 
Still the stars shine in the blue sky above us. 
Still the rain falls on the graves banned or blest, 
Foemen who hate us, or kindred who love us 
Sink with the sunset to rest. 

When the night comes where the past is forgotten, 
Full of dead dreams, and of dreamers long dead, 
Where the words of the poets are withered and rotten 
As dust in the path that the feet of Time tread — 
Let it be said, with oblivion pressing 
Close on the grave where these verses He long — 
"J"dge him not harshly, as one not possessing 
The God-given gift of Song!" 



Wif^o are tf)e l^mW of Columbus;? 



Who are the Knights of Columbus? They are brothers, 

true and tried ; 
They feel the bond of friendship for whose sake men 

have died. 
Their hands and hearts are open, their comrades feel 

the trust, 
And when you ask for assistance, it is not 'T may," but 

"I m'ust !" 



POEMS 23 

They are one when union is needed, whenever the time 

gives cause, 
For the God who gave them Hfe and soul and the land 

which gave them laws. 
If there is an end to strive for, or an injury to redress, 
You may call on the Knights to aid you, and the 

Knights will answer "Yes !" 

Who are the Knights of Columbus? The desolate 

orphans know. 
And the widowed wife and mother when the helpmate 

is laid low; 
They stand by the brother's bedside and when his eyes 

grow dim 
He knows his kindred will not sufifer, for the Knights 

will stand by them. 
They mourn him, for was he not worthy; was he not 

one of their own ? 
Did he not speak the sacred vows that are uttered by 

Knights alone? 
He clung to their ties and tenets while his lips possessed 

the breath ; 
He remembered the Knights when living, they remem- 
ber him in death ! 

Who are the Knights of Columbus ? They are banded 

under his name 
Whose deeds are ringing forever in the spacious halls 

of fame ; 
They cling to the cross he planted when his foot first 

touched the sod ; 
They cherish the faith he lived for, they kneel to the 

self-same God ! 
Perils but made him patient, and that lesson which he 

taught 
Is a monument to his honor as grand as the land ho 

sought. 
Onward as ke pressed onward, and if you would win 

success. 



24 POEMS 

Just call on the Knights to help you and the Knights 
will answer "Yes." 

Who are the Knights of Columbus ? They have brothers 

near and far, 
And ye never are a stranger if ye go where true Knights 

are ; 
Though the land be far and friendless in which you fare 

alone, 
By the gracious sign they teach you, you are as a 

brother known ; 
In the darkness or the daylight the answering call will 

come. 
And lips will bid you welcome that would otherwise be 

dumb. 
Through penury or through sorrows, while your 

knightly shield is clear, 
You have but to ask "Where are you?" and the Knights 

will answer "Here." 

Who are the Knights of Columbus? Go, visit the 

sacred shrine, 
Where the rose-red light of morning through the mul- 

Honed windows shine ; 
Look round at the silent worshipers who whisper upon 

their knees. 

They are the flower of our Church, and the Knights 

are the flower of these. 
Go where the faith is firmest, where its spirit is loved 

the best. 
Go where the flame of charity burns brightest in the 

breast ; 
Go where the pious forehead is oftenest bowed in 

prayer, 
And in that reverent multitude the Knights will be 

foremost there ! 



POEMS 25 

Who are the Knights of Cohimbus ? They are those 

who love their land, 
They follow the glorious Stars and Stripes and under it 

sink or stand, 
They are men who gave their blood to save the honor 

of those stars ; 
Who carry within the dreams of strife and who carry 

without its scars. 
And still, in an kour of peril, if the Ship of State be 

tossed 
On the waves which threat disaster, aye, even though 

hope is lost ; 
Wherever the battle rages, where the warfare is the 

worst, 
If the country needs brave soldiers, the Knights will 

enlist the first ! 

Who are the Knights of Columbus? The world shall 

know them yet. 
For their banner will be planted where the cross of the 

Church is set ; 
They shall spread to the furthest regions and under the 

alien skies. 
The people will cling about them as they see their 

temple rise, 
As their patron brought to the old world the knowledge 

of the new, 
So will they, Oh, distant kinsmen, bring the light of 

their faith to you. 
God speed the hour and the moment when over the 

whole world wide, 
If you call on the Knights of Columbus, you will find 

them at your side ! 
October 12, 1897. 



26 POEMS 



^nigf)t£i of Columbusi 



How dear to our hearts is that wonderful story 
Which shines through the mists of the fast-fading years, 
It tells of Columbus, his triumphs and glory, 
A tale that is written in blood and in tears ! 
How he travelled for aid, though despised and derided, 
We will not forget, though kind God may forgive — 
Till a Queen from her jewels a vessel provided, 
That the name of Columbus forever might live ! 
The name of Columbus, the fame of Columbus, 
The name of Columbus forever shall live ! 

We take for our patron this intrepid seaman, 

We cling to the banner he raised to the sky ; 

We honor his Queen, though each one be a freeman, 

Who would for his country be ready to die ! 

Our heads may be bowed and our footsteps may falter. 

But still with the spirit our fond hearts shall give, 

We'll gather again at our mystical altar, 

For the Knights of Columbus forever shall live! 

The Knights of Columbus, the Knights of Colum- 
bus, 

The Knights of Columbus forever shall live ! 



Columbus; 



When the mighty Columbus set out in his barque 

And sailed to the dim, unknown West, 

'Twas the splendor of Faith shed its rays through the 

dark. 
And brought him a haven and rest. 
The Cross that he planted soon flowrished apace ; 
Men clung to that banner through death and disgrace, 
And the land he discovered brought joy to the race. 
Above all it is honored and blest ! 



POEMS 

Oh, dear is the name of that chivalrous knight, 

And dear is the gospel he bore ; 

Oh, dear is the country his deeds brought to light. 

Each mountain and valley and shore. 

His name shall be ever as sweet to our lips 

As the sight of the land to the home coming ships, 

His glory the years cannot dim nor eclipse. 

We shall love him and honor him more ! 



27 



embarkation ®ap 



Brothers, who hail that lofty Admiral's name, 
Whether you breathe the seaborn air or claim 
Allegiance to the shining sunlit States, 
Some from the golden pathways of the West, 
Some from New England's granite— graven breast. 
To you this song a kinsman dedicates. 

To you this song — what should the singer say? 
Would that some thought bright as the flaming day 
Flashed from his heart that all the world might hear ; 
The music and the majesty of Song 
To such a name to such a deed belong, 
Which gave to Freedom a new hemisphere ! 

There are no minstrels now, no wanderers roam. 
Seeking at stranger firesides a home ; 
No more their songs fair deeds perpetuate ; 
We glide too swiftly down the tide of Time 
To hearken to the ripple 01 sweet rhyme 
Which once enshrined the noble and the great! 

But there are memories that can never die. 
Such are of him who, centuries gone by, 
Left far behind the purple ports of Spain ; 
What should he find beyond the boundless blue? 
Undying faith he had — God only knew 
Who set those jewels in the tropic main. 



28 POEMS 

Hope, dearest gift of heaven gave him sight, 

And in his heart forever shone the bright 

Unquenchless flame which showed him unknown isles. 

Somewhere he knew would victory crown his quest — 

For throned in the illimitable West 

There was a land where ever sunlight smiles. 

For he had faith, faith that could mountains shake, 
And from the wrathful seas their terrors take, 
This was a man of larger, greater mould, 
In those dim, ancient days the heroes trod 
Nearer to Nature, nearer to Nature's God. 
Ay, there were saints in the brave days of old ! 

Day after day he fixed his gaze afar, 

More constant even than the Northern Star; 

With valiant heart and tongue quelled doubts and fears. 

Others might doubt, might question or despair, 

Yet from his lips rose nothing but a prayer 

That God would gratify the thought of years. 

He found the land, in its eternal sands 
The Cross was planted by his worthy hands. 
And Oh, what glorious fruit that tree has borne ! 
How many blest ones dwelt beneath its shade ! 
How many hearts their vows to heaven made ! 
How many souls from evil has it torn ! 

We wear his name, shall we, too, live his life?- 
And do God's bidding in the toil and strife ? 
Shall we leave home behind and follow Him? 
Have we the courage to traverse the seas. 
To pagan wilds and unknown savageries. 
And bring the holy Gospel light to them? 

God marks a path for all. It may be ours 
To labor in near fields, to nurture flowers 
Of virtue, faith of charity and love. 
Our sphere may humbler be, yet if we use 



POEMS 

The talent God has given, we will not lose 
The glory and the crown prepared above ! 

Shall we, then, sit supinely by and gaze 
Into that drean\y, luminous, golden haze 
Which clouds the future, hoping that the years 
Will bring to all a remedy for wrong, 
That griefs will pass like echoes of a song, 
And all be happy when the morning clears? 

He builds his house on sinking sands indeed 
Who thus believes ; nay, if we would succeed ; 
If in the world the laurel we would gain, 
Our voices must be raised with hope instilled — 
Our hands be vigorous, our hearts be filled 
With God's great love, without which all is vain ! 

And these are times of trouble. Daring men, 
In the mad world assail with sword and pen 
Freedom and faith, which should go hand in hand. 
Here have they prospered, let us keep them pure ; 
Let us this heritage to our sons secure, 
The glory of the glories of our land ! ' 

For God and Country, for our faith and flag. 
No fetich worship of a flimsy rag 
To cover aims which have no place beneath it, 
But for the heaven-born hopes its spirit holds, 
For all who find a shelter 'neath its folds, 
And to the coming millions to bequeath it. 

What wonder then we raise where'er we are 
That glorious flag and hail each new-born star 
Emblem of sister states, in union crowned; 
Her birthright was by shot and sabre bought; 
Here wandering Liberty a refuge sought, 
Making of mount and meadow holy ground! 



29 



30 



POEMS 



Speed on, my country, whether sharp or sweet 
The path shall be beneath thy flying feet ; 
Speed on, nor let thy bright hopes ever fade. 
There is no hope for Freedom but with thee ; 
No altar fires burn for liberty 
But those thy patriot fathers long since made ! 

Our hearts are thine, our prayers and our hopes, 
From these fair seas unto the sunlit slopes 
That look far over seas to palm and pine. 
Thou art the guardian of those to be. 
Our aims, desires and joys are all for thee, 
Our lives our thoughts our fealty are thine ! 



jFor tf)e ?|opeful 



Within that chamber, sacred to our Cause, 

Friendship, most potent of afifection dwells, 
There Order reigns, the first of heaven's laws, 
Working its wondrous way with magic spells, 

And every blessing, every dreamed-of grace, 
Has lent its sweetness to this solemn place ! 

There in the circle of contentment rest 

Those who have given to their fellow men 
Loyalty, faith, appreciation, blest 

With all the qualities that dwell therein, 

Which in the gardens of the blissful bloom 
Exhahng to all hearts their sweet perfume. 

Over the threshold when the neophyte 

Steps to that sweet, strange scene, what fancies fill 
His anxious breast, what murmurings of delight 
Like haunting echoes from a rippling rill. 

That steals from the shadows where it lay so long, 
Waking the valley with its tremulous song ! 



POEMS 31 

And do they feel within their heart of hearts 

Emotions that might thrill them to the core? 
If it be true that solemn hour imparts 
A graciousness, a charm unfelt before — 

Then with what rapture should they bless the 

hour 
That first they felt its pathos and its power ! 

With what rejoicing should they ever meet 

Those of that faith, what honors should they bring 
And with a wealth of recollections sweet 
To these sublime professions ever cling! 

Who would not feel the starlight in his soul 
Yielding all homage to its sweet control? 

Alas ! for all the blossoming of hope, 

The promise of the springtime may be vain. 
Few may toil up the weary sunset slope — 

Few may bring in the golden sheaves of grain ; 
The words of truth that once they dimly felt 
Soon in the fires of strife and passion melt ! 

Yet there are hearts still vigilant and true 

Battling for principle, with faces set 
Firm and "four-square to every wind that blew," 
Knowing that every issue must be met — 

That conflicts must be waged what e'er their cost, 
For once the battle wavers, it is lost ! 

Give to their work the tribute of your praise, 

Give them your prayers, your voices and your tears. 
May these strong pioneers a pathway blaze 
Into the desert of men's doubts and fears, 

Where fond desires for rest no longer roam, 
There friendship and its blessing find a home ! 

What of the weakling warriors who, dismayed. 

Shrink at the sight of danger or forsake 
The quest of truth to throng the marts of trade. 



32 



POEMS 



Sellish, forgetful of the vows they take ? 

Show them the path that leads where glory waits 
The faithful toiler at the golden gates ! 

Press on, brave hearted brothers, let no stain 
Of mute supineness rest upon your shields, 
Into life's restless current plunge again, 
Raise up anew on far-ofif battlefields 

The banner of our faith, and it shall be 
An inspiration still from sea to sea ! 

Lo, in the dusk of crumbling centuries 

The memory of the man who ventured all 
Outshines the glory of the Pleiades — 
His deeds should be to us a trumpet-call 
To follow in his footsteps and his fame 
Who first, Christ-bearer, to this country camel 
January 20, 1902. 



Jflag 0! Mv ^anb, 3 lLo\)t K\)tt 



Flag of my land, I hail thee, 
No foeman dare assail thee. 
Supreme above man's scheming 
Thy lustrous stars are gleaming; 

For men shall hold it blest to die, 
That none shall rule above thee. 

Speak thou, Oh, Flag, we will reply. 
Flag of my land, I love thee ! 

Thy folds protect the stranger. 
Thy children fear no danger, 
Thy colors are inspiring. 
All hearts with valor firing ! 

The humblest soul shall hear thee. 
The boldest power fear thee. 



POEMS 

Thy stars shall lead men ever 
To honor stern endeavor ! 

And if to war we send thee, 
With millions to defend thee — 
Though traitor lips betrayed thee, 
Our hands and hearts shall aid thee! 

The old shall kiss and bless thee. 
The youngest child caress thee, 
Our living hands shall raise thee, 
Our dying lips shall praise thee! 

For men shall hold it blest to die, 
That none shall rule above thee, 

Speak thou, Oh, Flag, we will reply, 
Flag of my land, I love thee ! 



33 



Snbepenbence Bap 



Long, long the waiting world has lain 

Beneath the ruler's scorn, 
And weary men have looked in vain 

For glimpses of a morn. 
They bore the weight of kings and thrones, 

They felt the soldiers' tread, 
And heartless monarchs gave them stones, 

When they had asked for bread. 

But far away beneath the bars 

Of sunset, was a world 
Where men had lifted up the stars 

And Freedom's flag unfurled. 
A blast upon the trumpet blew 

That shook the proudest throne. 
And England's meteor ensign knew 

A greater than her own. 



34 POEMS 

This day, one hundred years gone by, 

Shone fair on man's desire, 
And all the splendor of the sky 

Was stretched with freedom's fire ; 
They knew not what a work was wrought, 

Hope kindled in the breast, 
And strong-limbed men in gladness sought 

The sunlight in the west. 

When from that quaint old Quaker town 

Rang out the joyous bell; 
It bade adieu to court and crown 

And tolled their dying knell. 
If all the stars of heaven sang 

Upon Creation's morn, 
What music through the wild woods rang 

When such a world was born. 

Oh ! Land of Promise, looking forth 

Between the severed seas, 
The snowy winds from out the north 

Speaks fair the southern breeze ; 
Her mountain peaks that rise so calm 

Unto eternal snows, 
Send greeting to the spicy palm 

Where Suwanee's water flows. 

Her white ships haunt the furthest shores 

Beneath warm tropic skies. 
And when the stormy petrel soars. 

Her rainbow banner flies ; 
The silence of Australian seas 

Is broken by her gun. 
Her stars lead forth the morning breeze 

And follow up the sun! 

Speed on thy fair and flowery ways, 

With glory, wealth and fame; 
Let all men gather to thy praise, 



POEMS 35 



And children lisp thy name, 
Until thy bright triumphal car 

Around the earth shall roll, 
To greet the shining Morning Star, 

One land from pole to pole ! 



jWemento Jlori 



"I am the resurrection and the life !' 

These are the words to thrill our hearts to-day, 
When from the world of sorrow and of strife 
A loved one glides away. 

This life of ours is but a path of thorns, 

For some, perchance, the fragrant roses smile. 
For some, a sunlit crown the day adorns — 
Just for a little while. 

For some, perchance, the perfumed winds of Spring 

Have only touched, as with a gentle kiss — 
But there are other seasons yet to bring 
Some sorrow to their bliss ! 

Whether we linger where the lilies blow. 

Or where eternal snows the mountains hide, 
To all alike, the messengers of woe 
Within the future bide ! 

We may look back across the flying years. 
They were so happy, must they ever end. 
Must happiness give way to grief and tears, 
Must friend depart from friend? 

Must all our mansions, built indeed of clay. 

Perish and fall to ashes one by one, 
Must all the aspirations of the day 
Fade at the set of sun? 



36 POEMS 

Aye, even so, this is the end of all, 

Not all the attributes of earthly power, 
Can stay the autumn leaflet from its fall. 
Or raise the fallen flower ! 

Yet God is merciful, and though the frost 

Seems to destroy the precious germ within, 
The life within the blossom is not lost, 
But will rise up again. 

But there are times we cannot see so far. 

Because our eyes are blinded with our love, 
Yet, in the Night of Death, Hope sees a star 
Fairer than all above ! 

It tells the heart that deep in heaven's dome 

The dear one waits ; it points with tender hand 
The path that leads us to that happy home, 
In that diviner land ! 

It whispers, though on earth were gloom and grief. 

Though every day a deeper burden brought, 
Here, in the sight of God there is relief, 
Beyond all human thought! 

It whispers, though her step is heard no more 

In all the happy ways that once she trod, 
She walks upon that white, celestial shore 
With all the saints of God! 

What though life seems bereft of every hope, 

A rosy light breaks through the twiHght gray, 
And iust beyond the shining, sunlit slope 
Waits a more glorious day! 

The sweet soul goes, only the thoughts remain — 

Of all existence stood for, only these — 
The few fair sheaves of gathered, golden grain. 
And fragrant memories. 



POEMS 37 

Still where the tomb looks out among the flowers 

That loving hands and hearts made fragrant there, 
At midnight or in smiling, sunny hours— 
The spirit breathes in prayer. 

Here shall the sunlight linger — here the day 

Shall hasten to burst forth, and here the heart 
Whose faith no flight of years can bear away 
Shall dwell from earth apart ! 

And God the Comforter, Who shall not cease 

To bless the souls of all who suffer woe. 
Shall give to those who mourn the blessed peace 
That His dear angels know ! 

Oh ! trust in Him, though great your sorrow be, 

Doubt not there is a solace, He knows best, 
His mercy is as boundless as the sea, 
In Him alone is rest ! 

Lord, let Thy blessings fall upon each brow; 

Let all Thy graces on the soul descend ; 
There is no other refuge — Oh, be Thou 
Our Saviour and our Friend ! 

April 7, 1904. 



Sbrienne 

(Adrienne was Mr. Barrett's youngest sister.) 



It does not seem so long ago 
Since June's warm roses smiled, 

With all the summer's rosy glow 
Upon this lovely child ; 

But in that time a life was passed, 
And to the little guest 

The angels brought relief at last, 
And rest ! 



38 POEMS 

The happiness of youthful years, 

The bliss of childish days, 
The smiles of girlhood and the tears 

That fall on life's fair ways — 
All these to her shall never be 

But oh, she has much more — 
The bliss of all eternity 
In store ! 

The joys of heaven and its grace 

Are brightly shinmg now 
Upon the tender baby face, 

And roses crown her brow ; 
How blest those little children are 

Who, in eternal day 
Live in the smile of heaven, far 
Away! 

And in that soft diviner air 

Her spirit wakes to bloom 
While yet the flowers of grief are fair 

Upon her little tomb ! 
She has but won the sweet reward 

And gone to her repose, 
So leave her with the blessed Lord — 
He knows ! 

He giveth and He taketh away. 

In life and death supreme, 
And o'er the waters dim and gray 

We pass as in a dream ! 
Oh, if each one before that throne 

Stood fair and undefiled. 
As does the little one just flown — 
Dear child ! 

December 15, 1892. 



POEMS 39 

Eatfjerine 

(Katherine is one of Mr. Barrett's children.) 



Brightest and best of the babies dear, 

Katherine sweet, with the eyes of blue. 
In the sweetest month of the sweetest year, 

What shall the seasons bring to you? 
All around are the flowers of June, 

Overhead is the azure sky. 
And the summer birds sing their sweetest tune 

When Baby Katherine passes by ! 

What do you think of, dreaming there. 
With the farway look on your sunny face? 

Are your dreams as bright or your thoughts as fair- 
Do they have your own unconscious grace ? 

Oh, the baby prattle is sweet and cute, 

And the kiss that flies from your finger tips, 

But we wish you'd add to your stern salute 
The tender words from the baby lips ! 

And ever the skies may hold for you 

The same soft charm that they bear you now, 
May you find forever all hearts as true 

As the one that beams on your baby brow ; 
The angels, leaning from heaven's bar. 

Will beam on you and will bring you bliss. 
But heaven is here where your own thoughts are, 

In the father's smile and the mother's kiss ! 

June 13, 1903. 



40 POEMS 



iWotijer of ^orrotos( 



Mother of Sorrows, by thy tears 

For thy dear Son in anguish falHng, 
Give us thy help, through all these years, 
While we on thee are ever calling, 
Thy intercession with the Lord 
Must bring for us, a long reward! 

Mother of Mercies, may our prayers, 
With thy sweet help be all availing; 
Oh, take our hearts from worldly cares, 
The tempter's voice our faith assailing; 
Thy gentle hand may lead us on, 
When all in earth and life is gone ! 

Mother of Hope, in thee we trust, 

In thee we place our fond reliance. 
Above the petty things of dust 
With thy aid we can bid defiance ; 
Thy Only Son must hear thy cry. 
Then bid not hope with nature die. 



jFor Her pirtijtrap 



Sweet da)-, so calm and clear, 
I magnify your worth, 

For on this day, a bygone year. 
Came one sweet girl to earth. 

So like a summer day — 
So winsome and so bright. 

The angels stole her tears away 
And left her but delight. 



pop:ms 

With all the wavering moods 
A summer day possessed — 

But not the silence of the woods 
Is laid within her breast. 

And yet, their lofty aisles 
So deep with shadows dim, 

Where only once the sunlight smiles 
On leaf and branch and limb — 

Are like her perfect love, 
For that is deep and pure, 

Sweet as the lustrous stars above. 
And like them, shall endure. 

And only skies of blue 

So gentle and so fair. 
Know that her faith is sweet and true, 

A pearl beyond compare. 

O, happy, happy day, 

Long may it be, before 
The skies shall turn from blue to gray, 

Be bright forevermore ! 

And on her sunny head, 

Let all things fair look down. 

Summer alone upon her shed 
A glory like a crown. 
July 2, 1895. 



41 



m 3 ?|ab ^eber iinoton 



Dear Love, if you within your heart 
Had laid your love away. 

Could you, unmoved, see me depart, 
And ask me not to stay? 



42 POEMS 

Could you be brave and say farewell, 
In friendship's tender tone — 

Nor let your lips the secret tell, 
If I had never known? 

If I had never known, dear Love, 
If I had never known, 

What would life be for you and me, 
If I had never known? 

Dear Love, if I had gone from you 

To find sweet pleasures where 
Another's heart was fond and true — 

Another's face was fair; 
Would you in silent sadness keep 

My face within your heart, 
To come between you and your sleep 

When other scenes depart? 

Dear Love, if I had gone before 

Your passion made me glad, 
I should be sad forevermore. 

And you — would you be sad? 
Or would you lay your love away 

Mourned by your tears alone. 
And tell me at the judgment day 

If I had never known 1" 



fetoeet ^lice 



Sweet Alice, lovely little maid, 

Won, in the days gone by, 
A glory that shall never fade. 

Till stars desert the sky; 
The Poet wrote for her such words. 

The sweetest he could frame — 
It was as if the song of birds 

Were echoing her name ! 



POEMS 43 

That Alice perished long ago, 

The grasses o'er her wave, 
And silently the winter's snow 

Falls on her lonely grave ; 
Although within the hearts of men 

She wakes a tender thrill. 
The magic of the poet's pen 

Recalls her memory still. 

There is a sweeter Alice now, 

For whom the birds can sing, 
Around whose smooth and snowy brow 

Such melodies should cling. 
But I, alas ! have not the art 

To write such things for her, 
Although within my trembling heart 

Such tender fancies stir ! 

Ah, if the light of her dear eyes 

Should fall upon my own, 
The graciousness of paradise 

Would live for me alone ; 
And I would wonder, dreaming here, 

While all the world fled past, 
Why were the skies so fair and clear, 

And would their brightness last? 

I hear her voice as in a dream 

That never fades away. 
Soft as the ripple of a stream 

Through meadows sweet with May; 
Where every flower lifts its head — 

Where all the zephyrs sigh — 
And roses blush a deeper red 

To see her passing by ! 

Some say, that every woman's heart 

Holds in its secret place 
A flower, of her life a part 

Which blossoms in her face ; 



44 POEMS 

A lily surely must it be 

That lives within her breast, 
For nothing less in purity 

Should on her bosom rest ! 

I lay these verses at her feet, 

And trust her slender hand 
Will hold them, with its clasp so sweet, 

While all the lines are scanned. 
But could she look into my mind, 

And hear my heart confess — 
What thoughts, what longings would she find, 

Too hopeless to express ! 

Long may it be before the years 

Will dare to touch her soul ! 
May her smiles never turn to tears 

While all the seasons roll ! 
And I — alone, and far away 

Look upward to her place, 
And, filled with dreams of beauty, pray 

Just to behold her face ! 



W\)t ?|iUg of ^usisiex 



Long, long ago, before the fires 

Of youth had died away. 
Long, long before my wild desires 

Had tatight my feet to stray, 
I roamed among the solitudes 

And sought the mountain rills, 
That sang within the misty woods 

L'pon the Sussex hills. 

How sweet to rise at early morn 
And brush the pearly dew 

From forest paths and groves forlorn 
My youthful footsteps knew; 



POEMS 45 

To watch the slender winding streams 

Threading the pensiA^e vales, 
And in exultant boyish dreams 

Float off with fancy's sails. 

No more I roam the Sussex hills 

Or walk beside its streams, 
No more its winding river tills 

My soul with sweet sad dreams ; 
No more I breathe its glad perfume 

When summer roses blow, 
No more the Sussex daisies bloom 

Or drifts the Sussex snow! 

Oh ! stars that show above the hills 

That watched my youthful hours. 
Above the fountains end the rills 

And meadows sweet with flowers — 
You led my willing footsteps then. 

And in the world outside 
I sought the busy haunts of men 

And mingled with the tide. 

The Sussex hills grew faint and dim 

Ar«ong my naemories, 
I heard no more the forest hymn 

That spring sang in the trees ; 
But in the glad mad rush for fame, 

For honor and renown, 
For glory, power, wealth and name 

The fires of youth went down. 

Too late, too late there came to me 

The knowledge of my loss, 
Too late I found in misery, 

That I must bear the cross 
Of triumph won through suffering. 

That strains the soul apart. 
Of wreathes that to the temples cling, 

But wither in the heart. 



46 POEMS 

Oh, Sussex hills, so far away, 

Are you so far — so far — 
That nevermore the Hght of day 

Shall bring me where you are ? 
That nevermore the slender moon 

Shall smile above your heights. 
With all the radiance of June, 

Or sweet September nights? 

Where is the life that once I led? 

The bliss of boyhood days, 
When sorrow with the springtime fled 

Down dim untrodden ways? 
Where is the purity of heart, 

The happiness of mind, 
The attic thought untouched by art. 

The joy I left behind? 

Oh ! Sussex hills, if I could climb 

Upon your peaks once more. 
And in your solitudes sublime 

My faded past restore — 
If I could cast the world aside, 

And with unfettered feet 
Among your glades and valleys glide, 

Life would again be sweet. 

Oh ! Sussex hills, I feel again 

Your presence in my heart, 
Like shadows in the haunted glen 

That never may depart, 
It seems as if my heart had flown 

To where it used to roam, 
And left me mourning here alone 

Like some lost child for home. 

And when my heart has ceased to beat, 
That some kind hand may lay 

Some Sussex flowers at my feet. 
Ere I am laid awav; 



POEMS 47 

But ah ! that I might ever rest 

Beside her rippling- rills, 
And sleep, a child upon your breast, 

Oh ! lovelv Sussex hills ! 



3n tlje S>ilence 



Some say that in the silence 

That comes when a song is o'er, 

The music's strain can be heard agam 

Murmuring evermore ; 

For a mystic melody floats on 

Like ripples upon the waves 

And the echoes leave their secret caves 

And into the world are gone — 

To fly while the night is flying, 

Moaning the song undying 

At dusk, and at dawn ! 

Oh ! Love, in my heart I hear it, 

It never shall fade or die, 

Too tender for me to fear it, 

Too strong for my gladdened spirit 

To give it reply; 

Too vague to be captured, or hidden, 

Too timid to rise unbidden 

It sings to the last ; 

As if it were strong, like the golden song 

Of the past! 

Oh ! voice that was born in beauty — 

Oh ! words that have banished pain, — 

Through my memory floats 

The exquisite notes 

O'er and o'er again ! 

Let it sing in my heart ever after 



48 POEMS 

Through a world of tears, and of laughter, 

Of laughter and tears, 

Of bitterness, and of scorning 

When the midnight follows the morning 

With sorrows, and doubts, and fears ; 

It is grander than all the stories 

Of the rare and radiant glories 

That through fairest fancies gleam 

Of a love that glows like a golden rose 

In a dream ! 

January 28, 1893. 



tETtanks^gtbtng 



The golden sheaves are gathered in. 
Autumn departs with shadowed face. 
And to the fire we turn again 
To look for each remembered face ; 
For leaf and bud and blossom fair 
Are but a memory of May, 
Now for the chill and eager air 
That ushers in Thanksgiving Day ! 

For all the gifts of corn and wine 
From fields made fertile by the toil 
Of men whose work becomes divine — 
For all the virtues of the soil — 
For all the precious things hid long 
In forests vast and far away — 
The tribute of the brave and strong, 
We give thanks, on Thanksgiving Day! 

For Thou, O Lord, has kept us well, 
On mountain waste or peopled plain, 
From Angelus to Vesper bell, 
From Vesper bell to dawn again. 



POEMS 

Thy grace hath filled our hearts with flame 

To do Thy deeds as best we may, 

To reverence Thy holy name 

And praise Thee, on Thanksgiving Day ! 

So may we bless the fading year, 
Not like the one who says adieu 
And with a face of doubt and fear, 
Glides on and soon is lost to view. 
But strengthened by undying hope. 
Praise God and His inspiring way. 
Though life be on the sunset slope, 
Dawn brightens on Thanksgiving Day ! 



49 



JSeponb tlje Kiht 



Alanna, O Alanna, iny heart is sad and sore. 

Since the mist rose up between us, and your face I saw 

no more ; 
I stood upon the deck that day till nothing could I see 
Of all the green and lovely shore, that was the world 

to me ; 
And when the night came over us, I couldn't go below, 
I wondered did you think of me — I wondered did you 

know 
How sad an hour it was to me, striving to pierce the 

bar 
That rose between my vision, and my love in Mulljngar. 

I'm thinking of the night, dear, the night before I 
sailed, 

I thought that I could say good-bye, but the voice with- 
in me failed, 

You could not speak, and to your eyes the tears refused 
to come. 

For sorrow dried their fountains up, and left our voices 
dumb. 



50 POEMS 

The stars were shining bright, dear, the moon was all 

aglow, 
And all the paths were bright with dew — the paths we 

used to know. 
They may be shining brighter now, they should be, 

where you are, 
For where could sweeter things be found, than home in 

MuUingar ? 

Do you remember, darling, that blessed summer day, 

When from the hills and meadows came the smell of 
new mown hay? 

We rested from our labors then, and travelled to the 
fair, 

Of all the girls from far or near, you were the finest 
there ; 

How proud I was to be with you, your eyes lit up the 
place. 

You had a rose upon your breast, and two upon your 
face. 

They may be withered now, dear, that day is distant far, 

But from my heart will never fade the Rose of MuUin- 
gar. 

I mind me of the Sunday morn, when after early mass 
We walked down through the churchyard, while the 

dew was on the grass. 
And from my mother's grave, dear, I plucked the little 

flower ; 
'Tis all I have to think of her — I've kept it till this hour ; 
I have no kin beyond the sea, I have no kinsmen here. 
And if I died alone to-night, sure none would drop a 

tear ; 
There would be only one to mourn, one heart to wear a 

scar. 
For it would be a bitter blow to you in MuUingar. 

Alanna, O, Alanna, when will I see the day 
That I can take you to my arms, and kiss the tears 
away? 



POEMS 51 

When will I see the Irish sun upon the meadows rest, 
And hear the lark at break of day make music o'er its 

nest? 
There may be meadows here, dear, but shamrocks 

never grow, 
And never in the hedges does the fragrant whitethorn 

blow. 
The air is full of sweetness there, blown from the fields 

afar, 
For everything is sweet that grows with you in Mullin- 

gar. 

Ah ! God be with the life we led in happy days gone by, 
And now, but for the hope I have, I'm sure that 1 would 

die, 
For toiling here I'm dreaming of a day that is to be. 
When I will turn my face to you, across the stormy sea. 
Ah, then Alanna, when I start, I'll fear no angry tide. 
Until I clasp you to my heart, and see you at my side. 
Sure in the distance I can see j^our face, a shining star 
To guide me in my wanderings to you in Mullingar. 



^ ^oitt from tlje (Sartren 



Even as in the garden bowers 
Some timid, shy and fragrant flowers 
Hide their frail bloom away — 
As if afraid to lift their eyes 
To greet the starry-crested skies 
Or face the wondrous day. 

Until some hand as fair and sweet 
As the pure blossoms at her feet 
Disturbs their soft repose. 
Finding more joy at such as these 
Than at their gracious majesties, 
The Lilv and the Rose. 



52 POEMS 

So, in tlie bowers of Song may He 

Some little buds, too sweet to die 

And yet, too fragile far, 

To lift their heads among the few 

Whose souls reach to the boundless blue 

Where the immortals are. 

They may, perhaps, enchant some heart, 

They may in some fair bosom start 

A thrill, before unknown, 

That will in its fair fragrance bloom 

Filling existence with perfume 

As with a rose full blown. 

Not mine the gifted hand to trace 

Thoughts that dull Time will not efface 

They'll perish, Ah ! too soon, 

One glimpse of sunshine let me bring, 

One airy memory of Spring, 

One melody of June. 

That tender hands may turn each leaf 

In youth's bright moments, all too brief, 

While runs the world away. 

That kindly eyes will scan each line 

And think the mystic music mine 

My soul shall ever pray. 

And you, shall you, too, turn your eyes 
Though underneath the alien skies. 
And say, with eyes grown dim — 
"Not for the singer are the tears, 
But for the song that lived for years 
Will 1 remember him." 

November 26, 1896. 



POKMS 53 

Sit tijc Boor 

Two faces brimming with a radiant light 
Met in the darkness, just a sigh arose — 
For one must go into the stormy night, 
And one to soft repose. 

She went to dream in her sweet couch alone 

Of meetings sweet, and partings, bitter pain — 
He, feeling her warm lips against his own 
Was happy in the rain. 



iilinnetjafja 



Minnehaha, ''Laughing Water," 
She, the lovehest Indian maiden 
Was a great Chief's queenly daughter, 
In the forest, flower-laden ; 
Far away from camp and city 
In that region wild. 
Dwelt the maiden, shy and pretty, 
Nature's dearest child. 

In the woodland wild she wandered, 

W'here the twilight, softly creeping 

Hid the beauties God had squandered 

Near the heart of Nature, sleeping; 

Here she spent her girlhood, listening 

To the songs of Day 

And Night, when crystal stars were glistening 

Still, and far away. 

I^onely in the forest, lonely 
As the sigh of lovelorn linnet, 
She inhaled the wood's song only 
And the life that trembled in it, 



54 POEMS 

In her bosom was the throbbing 
Mortal could not hush, 
Passionately felt the sobbing 
Of the dying thrush! 

To her nest, the dawn adorning, 
By the soulful, slumbering river, 
Birds came in the dewy morning 
Made the reeds with music quiver ; 
Made the ripples dance with rapture 
Till her own bird throat 
And her song-like heart could capture 
Every limpid note i * * * * 

This alas, is but a story, 

Told by Redmen, broken-hearted, 

Gracious with the golden glory 

Of the years, long, long departed, 

Like the pearl drops of the fountain 

When the spring is still. 

They have left the mournful mountain, 

Left the plain and hill! 

Only in one heart there slumbers 
Far away from Laughing Water, 
All those sweet and mystic numbers 
That the forest fairies taught her — 
She knew more of song and singer 
Than the maiden mild, 
Dawn and sunset Hed to bring her 
Voices from the wild ! 

Once (was it a dream?) I heard her, 
And the air was music laden — 
Wondering if it was a bird or 
Just a lilting, mortal maiden? 
On her face the sunlight glinted 
Perfect with its charm, 
And the lilies lay contented 
Dreaming on her arm ! 



POEMS 55 



All the airs that ever haunted 
Glen and summit, hill or hollow, 
Songs from moonlit vales enchanted 
From her fair lips flit and follow. 
Bird to girl heart is replying, 
Simple, sweet and strange, 
In the wood the song is dying — 
This will never change ! 

This will never change, ah, never, 

Far above pale man's dominion. 

Starry song the blue shall sever, 

Floatmg on angelic pinions ; 

All the grace of Springtime weather 

Will its charm prolong, 

Till the morning stars together 

Chant their last sad song! 

July 8, 1903. 



3n tfje i5eto life, fune 22, 1900 



June, fairest of all seasons, month of roses, 
Filled with the fadeless memories of Spring, 

That like a sweet, low song its cadence closes. 
With strains that thoughts of Paradise might bring! 

Green are the trees, green are the grassy meadows, 
Save where some daisy shows its golden heart. 

Or some late violet smiles beneath the shadows, 
Of Springtime's life, an unforgotten part. 

The wmds waft from the South their sweetest story, 
Birds in the treetops sing their gladdest tune. 

And all the world is bathed in that fair glory 
That only comes with roses and with June. 



56 POEMS 

At such a time, who would not cry in gladness 
"Give me the breath and beauty of the Earth, 

Laughter and song, but not a touch of sadness 
To break upon the memory of my mirth?" 

"Give me the fair delights of youthful splendor. 
Fair raiment, careless comrades, joyous friends. 

And all of life so precious and so tender 
That in the train of merriment attends." 

Such haply are the fond anticipations 

By which unthinking hearts are throbbed and thrilled, 
Yet stronger souls have other aspirations 

That cannot be by such desires filled. 

There are more things on earth than joy and pleasure — 

Alas, far more than happiness in life, 
Grief and despair and sorrow beyond measure, 

Sickness and suffering, poverty and strife. 

And some there must be to whose hands is given 
The grace to help, sustain, assist and soothe, 

And fortified by all the strength of heaven 

The path of those poor weary ones to smooth. 

They are not clothed in majesty of raiment, 
No jewels catch the wistful eyes of youth. 

Surrendering these, the dear Lord in repayment 
Has given gems of Charity and Truth, 

They toil in hovel, yea, within the palace, 
Even the great have need for such as these. 

For none may put away the brimming chalice 
That brings to each his share of miseries. 

Their work is felt in hospital and prison, 
Naught is too hard, no labor do they spare ; 

From beds of anguish many a soul has risen 

Filled with new manhood from their gracious care. 



POEMS 57 

No battlefield but feels their tender presence, 
No camp so far but their soft touch has known, 

Soldiers and seamen, princes, nobles, peasants, 
Have learned to look upon them as God's own. 

And yet not all in scenes of desolation 

Have braved these dangers with unshrinking will — 

Yet simpler things may win God's admiration, 
And simpler deeds an honored place may fill. 

Each in this world has her own part and mission, 
For some 'tis humble and for others grand, 

They must observe only God's admonition 
And use the talent placed within each hand. 

He knows the value of the service given 
It is not shown by the applause of earth. 

But in the golden chronicles of heaven 
Each little act is measured by its worth. 

What though some hero, with a sword enchanted 
Won wealth and glory for his sovereign State — 

Some gentle woman in his child's heart planted 
The little word that made his life's work great. 

And so to-day all tiie world is fairest, 

One turns her face from where fond pleasure calls, 
To seek that peace, of all the best and rarest. 

Within the silence of the cloistered walls. 

She heeds no voice that tells of worldly glory. 
Of triumphs, conquests, hopes that here allure, 

They are but dust, but shadows transitory. 
In His sight only noble deeds endure. 

Ah, youth is fair and marvellous is beauty 
With wondrous power in the world outside, 

Above, beyond and over all is Duty, 
With that alone the soul is satisfied. 



58 POEMS 

That fills the cup of happiness o'erflowing, 
To labor for God's poor ones and to wait 

While life pursues its reaping and its sowing, 
And weary watchers stand without the gate. 

The cross is heavy but the crown eternal, 
Here may be toil, but there, on shores above 

Where ever sunlight smiles on meadows vernal, 
There is compensation in God's love. 

May His great love be visited upon her — 
May He the path before her make more fair, 

Bring her deep peace and ever fadeless honor. 
Until the crown celestial she may wear. 

Illuminate her path with sacred brightness. 

Show her the way to help these struggling souls. 

Until she wears the veil of dazzling whiteness 
Among the angels with their aureoles. 



l^alben. 



Not in the city's mart 

Shall Nature find a voice, 
For how could there a Poet's heart 
Rejoice? 

Not where the hands of men 
Are grimy, counting gold, 
There, how could aught but tales of sin 
Be told? 

But in the leafy wood 

Far from the sound of strife, 
The beautiful, the true, the good 
Find life. 



POEMS 59 

Or by the limpid lake 

Where murmuring waters rest, 
And birds of song in gladness make 
Their nest. 

Here such a one dwelt long, 

He knew each fleet-winged bird. 
He loved all creatures wild, his song 
They heard 

His house was tempest proof. 

Broad was its base and high. 
The green moss was its floor, its roof, 
God's sky. 

The jewels of his mind 

He gave to all the world, 
The snow white flag of Humankind 
Unfurled. 

His spirit haunts the ground. 

His soul is in the stream. 
Where Fame immortal places found 
To dream. 

His spirit lives to-night 

And haunts this wintry room — 
I see the daisied meadows, white 
With bloom — 

I see, — or do I dream. 

Deep in the Concord glen, 
His shadow by that haunted stream 
Again ; 

And listen as of yore 

To hear an echo break 
The stillness of that strange, sweet shore — 
Or take 



6o POEMS 

One last look, bending low, 
At that grave on the hill, 
Where that great heart of long ago 
Throbs still. 
December 22, 1902. 



IrJerges; for tl)e ^ilber Jubilee of tfje 
l&eb, ?|. ^. Jfleming 

(Columbus Hall, Orange, June 29, 1896.) 



What place is this, in which we meet, 

What grand walls tower o'er us? 
Surely some heart in kindness sweet, 

Has built this palace for us. 
Where beauty is with grandeur blent 

In every crest and story — 
This is a mighty monument, 

Who does it wreathe with glory? 

I need not ask, for all who dwell 

Beneath its shadow know him. 
They know that master-hand full well. 

And honor love to show him. 
He shared their lot for many years. 

In brightness and bereavement, 
He wrought tor them through toil and tears, 

This, is his last achievement. 

To him who strives, is honor due, 

Their tribute, men shall pay him. 
But if he keeps one end in view, 

The elements obey him. 
This lofty dome will blaze afar 

The virtue of persistence, 
As in the dusk the evening star 

Makes lumuious the distance. 



POEMS 6l 



Here once, the little chapel stood 

In which our sires assembled, 
Who loved the little church of wood 

That in the north wind trembled ; 
Now rises these imposing walls. 

On which the sunbeams glisten, 
And when the bell to prayer calls 

Men lift their heads, and listen. 

This is his living monument. 

Long shall it stand above him, 
Where Knowledge sits with firm intent, 

And all revere and love him. 
Here, Learning holds its peaceful sway, 

With tender hands to guide it, 
And where stern duty points the way. 

Religion walks beside it. 

Let those who will prate of the rule 

By thoughtless nations followed, 
We honor most the Christian school, 

By God's own teaching hallowed. 
Not earth, but Heaven is the goal 

To which our steps are wending, 
So grace may follow each glad soul 

On wings of light ascending. 

This is his monument, we say. 

And yet, he has a greater, 
Whose spirits bless him every day 

Before a glad Creator. 
How many souls, brought home by him 

To share in Heaven's sweetness. 
Now, listen to the seraphim 

Chanting divine completeness ! 

Not in a napkin did he hide 

The talent God had given. 
But with his prudence multiplied, 

And brought the fruit to Heaven. 



62 POEMS 

Gray walls grew radiant at his touch, 

With him, Art was a duty, 
And in the church he loved so much 

The eye is filled with beauty. 

We may not know what lies beyond, 

Yet will revere him ever. 
And follow him, with eyes grown fond 

In every new endeavor. 
His, not the heart to rest an hour. 

In any field of labor. 
But work, while life shall give him power 

For God, and for his neighbor. 

If all he helped should bring one flower 

To wreathe a garland for him, 
The gathered bloom would build a bower 

Of wondrous beauty o'er him. 
But prayers can bring more joy than this 

From faithful bosoms springing. 
And ghmpses of eternal bliss 

Their gratitude is bringing. 

The years roll on, and when expires 

Another five and twenty, 
God grant he has his heart's desires 

In peace and power and plenty. 
His feet have felt the piercing thorns — 

Now, may he have the roses. 
Twilights of rest, add gentle morns 

Until existence closes. 

God smiles upon his life to-day — 

His humble, faithful servant ; 
May that smile never fade, we pray. 

With lips by love made fervent. 
Bear hfm within Thy mighty hand, 

While here he toils below Thee, 
Until within the Promised Land 

His soul shall bless and know Thee. 



POEMS 63 



lobe's^ ^orrotD 

(To M. F. W.) 



Within the garden of my memor}^ 

Where, in delight, far from the hght of day, 
Are hidden things that are so dear to me — 

I lay the memory of a song away ; 

Its tender echoes through my fancy stray, 
Like ?ome soft music, whispered from afar, 

When sunset glories turn from gold to gray, 
And twilight ushers in the evening star. 

"Ah, come to me, my Love,' the frosty air 

Seems palpitant with melody, and lo ! . 

A vision rises, fleeting, but how fair. 

That brings a thought of springtime to the snow; 

Again I feel the April breezes blow — 
Again I hear the thrushes' wildwood notes. 

And from the land where summer roses grow 
A mist of perfume in the midnight floats ! 

I hear all this, and know somewhere, some time 
My heart has heard that song, for its sweet thrill 

Floats througli the verses of my vagrant rhyme 
Like some forgotten minstrelsy, but still 
Its music all my bosom seems to fill — 

Its words my soul's dim sadness seems to lift ; 
And like a ship bereft of pilot's will 

My thoughts upon the sea of passion drift. 

"Oh, come to me, my Love," from parted lips 

Those words are warbled, but how sweet their tone, 
"Oh, come to me, my Love," existence slips 

Into the silence whence these words have flown, 

Sing on forever, I shall wait alone. 
And in the music of thy voice recall 

The sweetest sound my heart has ever known, 
Whose beauty and whose grace surpasses all ! 



64 POEMS 

Love's sorrow lingers till the heart beats fail. 
But longer still the echoes of that song — 

Like the dim light of starshine, rosy-pale, 

Will linger with me, unobscnred and strong: 
And in the chambers of my heart, among 

Those things we treasure most, it shall remain 
To bless me with its memory, as long 

As ocean sings its sad, eternal strain ! 



©be for tf)e "tillage ?|aU 

September, 1894. 



Oh, Valley rise with gladdened eyes to-day, 

Oh, Mountains from your tree-clad tops, look down, 

Oh, brawling brooks that through dull meadows stray 

Leave, leave your withered grasses brown; 

Hither, come hither as with flying feet 

And let your voices float along 

Above September's saddened song — 

For here our civic work is made complete. 

Our govermnent we crown ; 

With glad acclaim and mellow music sweet 

We build the temple of our Attic town. 

IL 

Not in the atlas of the age we boast 

Of pomp or power or place — 

The rude reminders of our rugged race 

Who blazed the path from distant coast to coast 

Have vanished from our vale ; 

Perchance some poet in the twilight pale 

May fill in fancy these forgotten fields 

With faded forms in homespun cold, and gray. 

With patriot sons of patriotic sires. 

With tramp of feet and echoes of the fray 

Waged for their homes and fires ! 



POEMS 65 

Ah me. What fruit this fertile valley yields 
To one whose ceaseless toil 
Digs deep into the continental soil 
And b»ars its store away ! 

in. 

Not mine the hand to guide 

The slender craft of Song 

Through seas where Atalantean storms abide, 

But rather let me sing 

Of themes these glimpses biing 

And wake an echo jubilant and strong. 

Men love their faith in freedom and have dared 

To keep her proud shield stainless of dishonor, 

To face the breath of Death with forehead bared 

If only to lay laurel wreaths upon her; 

Only their strength and bravery, 

Resist it, defy it — who can? 

Shattered the shackles of slavery 

And tore from the temples of man 

The swaddling clothes which held in check the brain. 

And in the wide arena, once again, 

Began the battle tha* the years began ! 

lY. 

The stream of life forever onward flowed 

Out of the twilight forest where it grew 

To love the light of God's eternal blue, 

Until the larger field, the meadows fair. 

The open court, the empyrean air, 

Begat dislike for its antique abode. 

Then in the heart of man, the yearning rose 

To leave the woods, the hills, the mountain snows, 

And in the sunlit valleys seek repose. 

"For love is of the valley" yea and takes 

A lesson from its limpid lakes 

Whose heart no storm disturbs, no tempest shakes. 

Here, in our later time ;. 



66 POEMS 

The lonely bugle calls, 

When only Justice is sublime, 

Men fashion from the fabric of the past 

New covenants whose power is not in force 

New laws whose light shall linger till the last. 

Firm as the stars that thread their distant course. 

No more on crested turret walls 

Inspiring hearts with hate of those who hurled 

Their strength against the foe, 

The battle flags are furled, 

Softly the bugles blow, 

And peaceful skies look down on peaceful lands below 

V. 

For what is government but honest rule 

Of prudence, justice and urbanity. 

The concrete wisdom of the cosmic school 

Taught by the ages to humanity? 

Perfect, if that perfection it may claim 

In which equality i« more than name 

By braggart lips upon the hustings spoken. 

Where purity and wisdom consecrate 

The public faith, and to men dedicate 

A code of laws not uttered to be broken. 

Free from the taint ot selfishness and free 

From love of popularity. 

Firm for the right and for the broader plea 

Of Justice, and still broader, that of Charity. 

Whose bowers no statutes frame 

Which, to the nation's shame 

Condemns a few to fast while others feast. 

Where laws upon the people Hghtly fall, 

That happy land is grander than them all — 

That state is mightiest whose rulers rule the least! 

VI. 

Return to earth, return to earth. Oh ! Song, 

Vex not the ether of that clearer air 

With wild Utopian dreams and visions fair 



POEMS 67 

Of lands oblivious of wrong! 

Along the starry road 

To that serene abode 

The way is difficult and long! 

If to the future floats 

The echo of thy bugle notes 

Like dust that falls from some dim, unseen star — 

They may awake responsive murmurs there, 

And in their beauty bear 

A message from afar ; 

Return to earth, to grander, nobler themes 

Than faint, idyllic, iridescent dreams — 

The mute, impalpable perfume 

Of long departed bloom! 

VII. 

Lay the foundation deep, for it must stay 

A monument for time, it shall exist 

When these, our brothers, fade into the mist 

Who throng its walls to-day. 

Lay the foundation deep, for on its base 

We rear for years unborn a meeting place 

Where justice, truth and honor's voice shall sway; 

Here shall the public speak, their servants shall obey. 

Here shall some Henry in a strain sublime 

Make eloquent the walls, 

And from this spot some village Hampden climb 

To Fame's immortal halls. 

We may not know what promises may rest 

In Time's inexplorable breast, 

But those who see the statue in the stone 

Know that ambition conquers more 

In unassuming peace or clarion-throated war 

Than opportunity alone. 

VIII. 

Here are our haunts and homes, 

No palaces whose bright, exalted domes 

Flash back the sunlight from their turrets gilt. 



68 POEMS 

The marble arches which Eneas built i 

Before earth's kings and capitals were Rome's 

Were not more dear to Tuscan hearts 

Than these, our cottages upon the hills, 

Where first the fight of morning thrills 

And last the day departs ! 

Faithful to thee — with roses would we strew 

Thy paths and meadows where the morning dew 

Hangs tremblmg on the grass — 

Faithful to thee, our hearts, our aims, our hopes 

Shall cling around thy leafy mountain slopes. 

Whose sunny crests shall never from us pass — 

Enduring still, like monuments of brass ! 

Thy fortune we will follow it, 

Thy fame we will keep gloriows. 

Thy memory, we will hallow it. 

Thy progress be victorious. 

Whatever rule shall be. 

Ask from tis what thou canst, our lives are all for thee^ 



a S^allabe of a Pirb 



Sweet feathered form of gold, 

Your music, trembling flie^ 
In beauty aureoled, 

Up to the dreaming skies ; 
In some dim Paradise 

You learned that wondrous art. 
For God the charm supplies 

Within your beating heart ! 

Under the crumbling mould 

Cecilia's body hes, 
Her soul — the angels hold, 

Her music — time defies ; 



POEMS 69 



Did you hark to her sighs, 
And make her voice a part 

Of song that never dies 
Within your beating heart? 

Oh, Singer sweet — yet bold, 

Forever shall men prize 
Beauty, that grows not old — 

Truth, in its own sweet guise — 
Still in our wistful eyes 

The tears of sorrow start, 
Fair hopes forever rise 

Within your beating heart ! 

l'envoi. 

Prince, to the starry skies 

Where shall we find the chart? 

The voice of Love replies — 
"Within your beating heart !" 



Pallabe of tfje €nh of Mav 



Forest and field are green. 

The odor still haunts the air 
Where the Spring stole by unseen. 

With the hyacinths in her hair. 
Shaded the sun's dull glare 

In the glades where the ripples play 
Ah, but the world is fairl 

This is the end of May. 

Only the lilacs lean 

Their hearts to the sun and swear 
That never again their sheen 

Will gleam ere the roses dare ; 



70 POEMS 

High in her leafy lair 

The oriele now holds sway, — 
Ah, but the world is fair ! 

This is the end of May. 

Summer will soon be queen ; 

June, with her beauty rare 
Will sing where the Spring has been. 

But never the same sweet air; 
And never our hearts shall share 

The glories that fade away — 
Ah, but the world is fair ! 

This is the end of May. 

l'envoi. 

Time, bid the sun stand there 
(Ah, but the world is fair!) 
That never our lips shall say 
This is the end of May. 



tlLo a Pabe 



Dimpled, wrinkled little features. 

Blinking baby eyes. 
Prettiest of all God's creatures, 

Out of Paradise ; 
Lying on your pillow cosy, 

Staring round the room. 
Like a blossom, rich and rosy. 

Just begun to bloom. 

Only in your infant vision 
Thoughts celestial are — 

Like a dream from the elysian 
Shores of lands afar; 



POEMS 71 

Mute the tongue that soon shall fashion, 

Words and phrases dear, 
And our words of soft compassion, 

Touches not your ear. 

There ig naught so sweet and tender 

As the baby speech. 
Though its prattle may not render 

Thoughts our lives may reach, 
Music as of heaven lingers 

In those murmurs low, 
And the touch of tiny fingers, 

Sets the soul aglow. 

You, whose life but numbers hours, 

We, of many years, 
You, a flower among flowers 

Knowing naught of tears — 
Yet to us that flower granted. 
Make our joy complete. 
Life may be a realm enchanted 

For your little feet. 

Shrinking, timid little stranger. 

Sleep, your days are long. 
You shall shielded be from danger 

Till you're big and strong, 
God's dear angel hovering o'er you. 

Nevermore departs, 
He shall smooth the path before you 

Leading from our hearts, 

February 18, 1900. 



72 POEMS 

jWabeleine 

(Madeleine is one of Mr. Barrett's daughters.) 



Sweetest bud of all earth's flowers, 

Madeleine, 
Loving light of lonely hours, 

You have more than mortal graces. 
Yours, the fairest of all faces, 
Beauty gifts upon you showers, 

Madeleine ! 

Dusky eyes that shine so brightly, 

Madeleine, 
Like the glad stars beaming nightly. 
Tell me in what wild romances 
Did you get those roguish glances. 
Or that laugh that rings so lightly, 

Madeleine? 

In the night or in the daytime, 

Madeleine, 
Every moment is your playtime, 

Mischief finds your fairy fingers, 
Sunshine in your presence lingers. 
Like the spirit of the Maytime, 

Madeleine ! 

Dimpled chin and lips of cherry, 

Madeleine, 
Cheeks like June's blushing berry, 
Chubby arms full of caresses, 
Gleaming through your dainty dresses, 
Ever charming, ever merry, 

Madeleine ! 



POEMS 

Ah, the angels must have missed you, 

Madeleine, 
When they said farewell and kissed you, 
In that land of love and wonder. 
Far above us dreaming under. 
For what spirit could resist you, 

Madeleine? 

In your heart is music ringing, 

Madeleine, 
Baby lips the words are singing, 

Sweetest voice by mortal spoken. 
Sweetest silence unbroken, 
Sweetest tales your heart is bringing, 

Madeleine ! 

In your face as in a mirror, 

Madeleine. 
We can see the soul shine clearer, 
In your eyes there is reflected 
All that's honored and respected, 
You make innocence sincerer, 

Madeleine ! 

Ever of the future dreaming, 

Madeleine. 
Of the real and the seeming, 

What to you are thorns or roses. 
What the secret dawn discloses, 
What the stars above you gleaming, 

Madeleine ! 

Morning's glories join in greeting, 

Madeleine, 
Birds in song your name repeating, 
Life for you holds perfect pleasure, 
Baby memories we will treasure. 
Still for you our hearts are beating, 

Madeleine ! 
June 22, 1903. 



73 



74 POEMS 



Four sunny years of life and love 

Your young existence measure, 
With all the blessings from above 

Your after days will treasure; 
The baby moments, soft and sweet 

Have vanished, Uke Spring flowers, 
And now, before your dainty feet 

Spread out fair Childhood's hours. 

Sing, songbirds, sing your loudest tune — 

Sweet Nature, tell your stories — 
Full of the memories of June 

And her undying glories ; 
Bring her those gifts that will not pale, 

Oh, gracious birthday Fairies, 
Waft on her Fortune's fav'ring gale 

That never veers or varies ! 

You have but known the tender touch 

Of hands that would caress you, 
They all have loved you, oh, so much, 

And tried indeed to bless you ; 
They watched you with your little toys. 

They loved you waking, sleeping. 
They joined with you in all your joys 

And mourned when you were weeping. 

Could we into the future peer, 

And see far down the distance, 
We might then know each wandering year 

Would brighten your existence : 
We might then hope that all your days 

Would pass with those who loved you. 
That none but sunny Junes or Mays 

Would bend their skies above vou ! 



POEMS 75 



Ah, may you grow divinely tall, 

With eyes of sultry splendor, 
Your voice, a liquid madrigal. 

Your nature, sweet and tender ; 
May grief and you dwell far apart, 

Your youth be honey-laden. 
And may you have the truest heart 

That ever graced a maiden. 

The skies above be ever blue, 

Beneath your feet, the mosses 
All garlanded with pearly dew 

To shield you from life's crosses; 
Instead of four years, may four score 

Upon you blessings shower, 
Yet leave your heart forevermore 

As young as at this hour ! 

June 17, 1903. 



jFor anna 

(To a friend's infant daughter.) 



Beyond the arching, azure skies 
The stars looked out in glad surprise. 

Upon some happy morn. 
When through the gleaming gates of pearl, 
The angels sent a little gfirl — 

And so was Anna born. 

For in her happy baby face, 
There lingers yet a tender trace 

Of other lands and skies, 
Some mute, inconstant, star-like dreams. 
Possess her soul, until there seems 

A glory in her eyes. 



y6 POEMS 

We may not know in years grown blind, 
What fair ideas fill her mind, 

Or prattle in her tongue ; 
The lisp and whisper of her youth, 
The airy innocence of truth, 

A song by angels sung. 

But O, what rapture as she grows — 
The sweet unfolding of a rose, 

In childhood's happy June ; 
Unto her eyes such pleasure brings, 
Until she sighs for distant things, 

And long to have the moon ! 

Those baby hands, so soft and white. 
Will clasp, in tremulous delight 

Another's hand, some day; 
Those baby eyes, so calm and still, 
Will send to other hearts a thrill 

Which will not pass away. 

Like some tall lily may she lift 

Her head among the flowers, and drift 

As on a shining sea — 
Made odorous by violet. 
Where every murmuring wave is wet 

By fragrant memory ! 

Then may her peaceful, happy days 
Flow gently on through sunny ways 

With rose? hung between ; 
And all beneath her little feet 
Be redolent with flowers sweet. 

And grasses soft and green. 

For her sake may the skies be blue, 
For her, may every heart be true. 
And all her dreams be fair — 



POEMS 

And whether m the sun or shade 
May smiles appear, and sorrows fade 
And gladness fill the air ! 

Until at last an angel sweet 
Shall lead the little, tired feet 

To that eternal shore ; 
O, Innocent, that I may be 
As happy in your memory. 

Forever, ever more. 

July 21, 1893. 



77 



^o^emarp 



White roses full of innocence and truth ; 

White lilies on her bier alone be flung. 
And all the symbols of eternal youth 

For one who died »o young. 

Tears for the stricken hearts, but no sad tears 
For the pure heart that vanished from the strife, 

Out of the land of dreams and doubts and fears 
Into the land of life. 

For like the music of a far-oflf song. 

Heard in the stillness of the twilight gray 

Leaving a memory sweet and sad and strong 
Her white soul passed away. 

If we could pierce those mystic clouds afar 
And in that land bathed in eternal light 

Where in the solitude of some sweet st«r 
Her spirit dwells to-night. 

If we could feel what her heart dimly feels, 
If we could know the glory of that peace 

The perfect bliss that o'er her seiiises steals, 
Our tears perhaps would cease. 



78 POEMS 

Only our thoughts may reach that heavenly host 
We strive in vain to touch the tender hand 

Like ships that beat about a stormy coast 
And never reach the land. 

Oh ! bring fair Hlies, for her life was fair ; 

She had their bloom, their purity, their grace 
And twine them in the soft and clustered hair 

About her lovely face. 

The stars of morning still sing in the skies ; 

Still do the angels gather round the throne ; 
And dawn is just as fair in Paradise 

As when the first sun shone. 

Then with the sainted ones shall she rejoice; 

Her face shall shine among that blessed throng, 
And with celestial music in her voice, 

Join in the angel song. 

Dear God, we pray thee bless our fading days, 
Inspire our hearts Thy works to glorify; 

Give us the grace to follow her sweet ways, 
Who yet must learn to die. 



at tlje (gratje 

(W. J. F., JUNE 20TH 189O.) 



I. 

Lay him to sleep, life's battles now are over ; 
He lies beyond the touch of grief or tears ; 

The rosary of years 
Fall, one by one, with those who mourn for him, 
Hearts shall be desolate, and eyes be dim, 
Wet with the memory of that absent face ; 
While thoughts shall fly across the waste of space 



POEMS 79 

To where the angels ever sentry keep — 

Beneath the budding grasses and the clover, 
Lay him to sleep. 

II. 

Lay him to sleep, but tremulous and tender 
A voice across the dreary silence falls 

Until its tone recalls 
(Faint as a song that murmurs through a dream). 
The thought of him we loved, and so we seem 
To listen to the voice we heard of yore. 
To see the face that looks upon the shore 
Where never sorrows come, nor mortals weep; — 
Beneath the lilies in their snowy splendor, 

Lay him to sleep. 

III. 

Lay him to sleep, and in the summer hours 
Shall birds above his bed a requiem sing: 

And in the dusk of spring 
The violet shall smile upon liis tomb 
And sweeter and more fragrant flowers bloom: 
The Autumn winds shall moan, and here the snow 
Shall whiten all the sward where daisies grow 
And myrtles climb upon each mouldering heap ; — 
Beneath the fragrance of the summer flowers, 
Lay him to sleep. 

IV. 

Lay him to sleep ; life in its Springtime closes, 
His work is done forever. Let us go. 

For he shall never know 
In that still tomb where rest and silence are 
The light of morning, or of evening star ; 
The dawn shall come across the silent sky, 
And in the west, the sunset glories die ; 
But in that grave no dawns nor twilights creep : — 
Beneath the sunshine, and the rain, and roses. 
Lay him to sleep, 
To sleep. 



80 POEMS 



Sifter bereavement 



The angel spirit God has sent, 

Is called to Heaven above, 
He did not seem on earth content, 

Despite a mother's love. 
Too weary did. the journey seem, 

For tender little feet — 
So short, it vv'as only a dream, 

But oh, how fair and sweet ! 

The summer's bloom had died away. 

Dull autumn filled the skies. 
But yet it was the breath of Alay 

That sparkled in his eyes ; 
A flower growing in the frost. 

Is fainter than in Spring, 
The bud and bloom alike £pre lost 

Since life lias taken wing! 

We may not know, so Blind we are, 

The reason, of this woe, 
There seems in all the sky no star, 

No light on earth below, 
Yet God, who loveth great and small. 

Welcomes the little guest, 
He sent him forth and at His call 

The shrinking soul found rest. 

The little feet shall never tread 

The earthly paths of pain, 
Nor shall the tired little head 

Feel bitterness again. 
He shall not dread the coming years, 

The future, unknown, dim. 
Nor shall he know the touch of tears — 

They have no sting for him ! 



POEMS 8l 

Give him unto the dear Lord's care, 

His ways are kind and just, 
He'll give you strength your load to bear, 

In Him put all your trust. 
And for the little darling thing — 

The fragile rose — half blown. 
To its sweet memory you may cling, 

There, it is still your own. 

December 17, 1900. 



ttto a Jfrienb 



I have eaten at your board, 

I have drunk of your warmest cheer, 

You had a place for a churlish face. 
Not a day, nor a month, but a year ! 

I have walked with you in the day, 
At night, when the stars stole down, 

And side by side in the long, long ride. 
That led us to Boston Town. 

By the tombs of the good and great 
We stood, where the whispering pines 

Sang soft and low of the long ago. 
Chanting the sleepers' lines. 

Some day — is it near or far — 

Shall we, too, cleave the seas. 
To the soft skies where our Shakespeare lies, 

Oh, Master of many keys ? 

Yet here will I break the thread 
Of the song that will lie imsung. 

Life's fires will burn and the hair will turn. 
Yet the heart is forever young. 



82 POEMS 

So the poets grow not old, 

They have fathomed dark Nature's scroll, 
And grim old Walt has the briny salt 

And the green grass in his soul. 

Christmas, MCMIII. 



3n ^igf)t of ?|ome 



Mine eyes at last are opened 
To all His saints have told, 

I see the spacious court of God, 
I see his streets of gold ! 

T see His throne of glory, 

Lit by supernal light. 
And many a sainted one whose face 

Is happy in His sight. 

I see the wondrous mansions, 
Whose walls with jewels shine, 

I see the starry stairs that leads 
Up to that realm divine ! 

I hear His precious angels 
Their loud hosannas raise, 

Amid the music of the spheres 
Chanting their hymns of praise ! 

I feel His gracious presence, 

A light within my breast, 
Ah, would that T could worthily 

Receive so fair a guest ! 

But Lord, I am unworthy, 
My trust in Thee I place, 

Oh, lead me to Thy shining home 
Where I may see Thy face ! 



POEMS 83 



I. 

Out of the sunset of departed years, 
With memories of laughter and tears, 

With crash of battle, and soft hymn of peace, 
What star is set against the sombre shade ? 
Whose face grows brighter as the sunlight fades, 
Whose glory age nor darkness can decrease. 

II. 

Born with the blossoms of the early Spring 
His cars first heard the song that thrushes sing; 

His eyes first fell upon the meadow green. 
The April sun that shone upon his birth 
Shone on him when his eyes last looked on earth ; 

And Stratford chancel closed the final scene. 

HI. 

A child, he wandered through the Stratford woods, 
Mingling with nature in her solitudes ; 

Dreaming", and idle, finding boyhood sweet — 
Until "Her Majesty's Poor Players'" came. 
Kindling within his youthful breast a flame 

Which lingered till his heart had ceased to beat, 

TV. 

The Stratford forest knew his step no more. 
He sought instead, old London's busy roar ; 

An earnest, passionate, reliant boy. 
Henceforth his life was given to the Stage; 
And gathering the precious heritage 

That centuries can rust not, nor destroy. 



84 POEMS 



V. 



Three hundred years have let their shadows fall 
Upon this world, since mankind felt the thrall 

That drew them to the pictures of his pen ; 
While other poets glimmered for a space 
But passed, like planets, o'er the sun's bright face 

Into the dim obscurity again. 

VI. 

Who hath not felt the magic of his wof ds ? 
Who hath his music touched not, as a bird's 

Far distant song upon a Summer's night ? 
His characters, filled with his wondrous breath 
Wither and fade not, with Elizabeth, 

But star to entertain and to delight. 

VII. 

His voice is heard upon the sobbing seas ; 
Or weaving chains of tender harmonies 

When June winds kiss the forehead of the rose. 
His t-error mingles with the hopele'ss shriek 
Of homeless winds round scKne high mountain 
peak. 

Wedded by frost unto eternal snows. 

VIII. 

His spells have conjured spirits from the tomb 
With mystic incantations, in the gloom 

Of blasted heaths, and hag's unhallowed rites, 
His monsters creep from wild and sunless caves, 
His ghosts step forth from their unquiet graves, 

And hell itself for him had bar*d its sights. 

IX. 

His sprites have hovered o'er the soft sea spray, 
And in dim woods his ehves their antics play. 
The world for kim was filled with fairer forms, 



POEMS 85 

For him the heavens wore a brighter blue, 
The secrets of the ocean depths he knew, 

And stole the thunder of the fiercest storms. 

X. 

His heroes stand outlined against the sky. 
In ever-during flesh that cannot die, 

They are not fiction now, but wholly real, 
And those who once were kings, have been de- 
throned. 
The voice and features that they really owned 

Are superseded by his new ideal. 

XT. 

And if our words could reach that distant air. 
Where Avon wanders through the meadows fair, 

To hail the dawning of his natal day. 
The skylark, singing in the April sky, 
Would breathe a fitter, purer melody 

Than man's most loving heart could hope to say. 

XII. 

Though pilgrims from bleak lands and sunny climes 
With studded treatises and polished rhymes, 

Have laid their votive wreaths upon his brow, 
On other shrines their offerings may be laid, 
His chaplet is secure and cannot fade, 

Nor can they add a laurel to it now. 

XIII. 

Although the heart of England gave him birth. 
His art was not for England, but for earth ! 

Hi? words are treasured as a priceless thing. 
In every land, regardless of its tongue. 
The praises of its melody are sung; 

The realms of thought have crowned him as thei»- 
king. 



86 roEMS 



XIV. 



What has his Hfe to teach us ? Ah ! 'tis true, 
The master built far better than he knew. 

He wrought not for the future, nor the past; 
Each moment has its mission, for 'tis sure 
That which is worth remembrance will endure 

And all the wrack of centuries outlast. 

XV. 

The mighty product of his teeming brain 

Shall live and flourish while the Summers wane, 

Or Winters glide into the waste of years, 
Still shall his mirth the multitude make smile ; 
Still shall his poesy the heart beguile ; 

Still shall his grief awake our saddest tears. 

XVI. 

Oh ! stream that flows beside his resting place, 
That mirrored in his depth his thoughtful face; 

Oh ! turf that sank beneath his restless feet ; 
Oh ! winds that listened to his words and sighs ; 
Oh! meadows, blossoming before his eyes, 

Your memories are wonderful and sweet. 

XVII. 

Prospero's wand lies buried by his side. 

In that dim tomb beyond the rolling tide, 

That holds his dust until the end of time. 
His words we treasure in our heart of hearts ; 
His fame defend we from all envious darts ; 

His name we venerate with faith sublime. 



POEMS 87 

VL\}t 0ih gear anb tf)e i9eb3 



With all the glories that it knew 

The Old Year dying lies ; 
Old Friend, we long have watched with you, 

Now will we close your eyes. 
Your place is with the fading years 

In record, or in rhyme. 
For o'er the dim horizon peers 

The youngest child of Time. 

Outside the door a little form 

Stands trembling in the snow. 
Unsheltered from the blinding storm 

His face is yet aglow. 
For soon the merry midnight bells 

Their sweetest chimes shall play 
That to awakened nature tells 

The birth of New Year's Day. 

The Old Year's face is wan and white 

And pinched, and peaked and drawn, 
For him no more the rosy light 

Of summer days shall dawn ; 
For him no more shall roses climb 

Or violets touch his feet. 
Or bluebirds in the nesting time 

Break forth in carols sweet. 

Good bye ! Good bye ! poor dying year, 

Yet will we dream of you 
And hold each dream for ever dear 

That with the summer flew. 
Go forth upon Time's flov^^ing stream 

A ripple on the wave, 
Where wintry stars in silence gleam 

Upon your lonely grave. 



POEMS 

Come from your cradle, curly-head, 

Take up your scythe and mow. 
Bring back to me the joys that fled 

With glad years, long ago ; 
Come, for your rosy presence lends 

A graciousness divine. 
And brighten with your light the friends 

Whose happiness is mine ! 

Bring back to me the sunny days 

When all the world was fair; 
And through Life's sweet alluring ways 

Bloomed flowers everywhere ; 
When sweet the song the thrushes had, 

When all the skies were blue. 
When every face was flushed and glad 

And every heart was true. 

But now, alas ! the skies are drear, 

No ray of hope illumes 
The magic coming of the year, 

And not a flower blooms : 
Out of the sky the sullen snow 

Falls beautiful and chill. 
Like whispers from the long ago 

When all the night is stiil. 

But fainter than the snowfiakes fall 

Upon the frozen fields 
A voice, so soft and musical 

The star-lit silence yields ; 
A song that from the heavens came. 

Sweet as a maiden's kiss. 
And touched my heart as with a flame 

That brought unmeasured bliss ! 

And all the earth grew glad again 
Once more the thrushes sing. 
As gay as in the meadows when 



POEMS 89 

The violets bloom in Spring; 
Tt drove the dusky shadows far 

Into the misty past 
And left me dreams of bliss, which are 

Too beautiful to last ! 

Oh ! fair Young Year, that I may see 

Ere roses kiss your brow, 
Each laughing face that smiles on me, 

Made happier than now — 
Upon their paths in gladness shine, 

Bring blessings from above. 
And touch, as with a light divine 

The lives of those I love ! 



C^e $oet 



Within a land of dreams the poet dwells. 

Whose skies are shaped with his imaginings 
That have no form, save that which swiftly springs 

From out the heart that worketh miracles. 

For every object that he touches, tells 

Of his strange soul, that floats on fleecy wings 
Breathing delights with airy whisperings 

As the sea's voice lives in its chanting shells. 

Singer of songs most sorrowful, or gay, 
Sweet as the breath of roses, light as air 
Filled with the grace that summer meadows wear, 

Perchance of such brief beauty — who can say? 
The stars that look on Homer still are fair. 

And time hath not his garland worn away ! 



90 



POEMS 



tKfje ILoht of tt)e irigt) (girl 



It is filled with the bloom of her fairest years, 

It is cherished deep in her heart, 
And whether it brings her smiles or tears. 
It becomes of her life a part ; 
t is firm as the rocks, that enduring stand, 
Though the mad waves round them whirl, 
t is ever as green as her native land — 
The love of an Irish Girl. 

t is soft as the dew on the morning lawn. 

The tears of the Summer night ; 
t is fair as the ros)^ flush of dawn, 

And pure as the moon's pale light ; 
t is glad with the musical song of streams 

That through blossoming meadows purl, 
t is dear as the fairy-like faces of dreams — 

The love of an Irish Girl. 

The joyous song that the skylark sings 

Is not as sweet as her voice. 
It has all the charm that the springtime brings, 

When the crocus buds rejoice; 
For the kiss of June on her fair face lies 

And the painter, bafit'led, seeks 
To catch the light of her sunny eyes, 

Or the rose that glows in her cheeks. 

From her own sweet island across the wave, 

I would gather the fairest flowers 
That ever a kind Creator gave 

To that Emerald garden of ours ; 
I would weave a wreath of their blossoms sweet, 

And place in its clasp a pearl, 
And lay it, with my heart, at her feet. 

For the love of an Irish Girl ! 



POEMS 91 



i:t)e IffllfjippoortoiU 



In the tremulous twilight, pale as the blossomless land 

of Death, 
When the splendors of daylight fail, and the lips of the 

Spring lack breath, 
The brows of the hills, green- crowned, loom lack in the 

shadows dun, 
And the hills and valleys are bound with the silence at 

set of sun. 
From the heart of the silence falls, as a moonbeam slips 

in the sea, 
Or the voice of the Summer calls, an echoing melody, 
Filling the dusky air with a dainty ripple of song. 
And the wild notes, perfect and rare, grow sweeter, and 

sad and strong, 
"Bird of the dusky woods, mourner of falling day, 
In thy leafiest solitudes what are the words you say?" 

"Alone, alone 1 watch the day departing. 

Farewell, sweet day, and hie thee to thy sleep. 
Above, above the timid stars are starting 

Their watches of the night with me to keep. 

"Alone, alone amid the shadows dusky. 

Oh ! heart of mine, why do you fear the light? 

At dawn, at dawn my voice is faint and husky — 
I have no love but silence and the night. 

"The West, the W^est the gorgeous sunbeams cover, 
Farewell, sweet day ! Ah ! sweeter things shall 
die. 

Look down, look down, O night, thou art my lover. 
The night is come, and with the night come I." 

And the song of the bird in the dusk lightens the heart 

of the gloom. 
As an atom of odorous musk will cherish for years its 

perfume. 



92 POEMS 

Now fainter and fainter it grows, like the light of the 
furthest star, 

Till it melts like the Summer snows in the land where 
no Winters are. 

But a flutter of wings is heard, and a fleet form passes 
us by, 

And the song of the midnight l)ird is blown to the mid- 
night sky. 

The niglit hours lingereth long, till the East hath a 
tinge of gray, 

And the sound of the sun-bird's song grows glad at the 
sight of day. 

"Sing to us, O son of the night, lone watcher of mid- 
night skies, 

For the face of the East grows bright, and the dawning 
dazzles the eyes."' 

"Oh, dawn ! oh, dawn, turn back, for night is dying. 

Her death disturb not with thy fiery breath. 
I, too, I too, from sunlight must be flying. 

Oh, night! my song is ended with thy death. 

"Afar, afar, where giant shadows cumber 
The solitude, where sunbeams never stray, 

Alone, alone I'll sink in secret slumber. 

Till waning light proclaims the death of day. 

"Oh, hark! oh, hark! the merry birds are blending. 
Their carols with my soul's despairing cry. 

Farewell, farewell, till twilight is descending — 
The night is gone, and wath the night go I." 



tKo a Ci)ilb 



A slender voice in leafy June 
Has first essayed to sing. 

Lisping in childhood's happy tune 
Delight with everything. 



POEMS 93 

No sorrows fall on her soft brow, 

No shadows linger there, 
For baby life is sweetest now, 
.A.nd fair. 

Sing-, song birds, at the dawn of day. 

Your loudest and your best. 
Sweet slumber come at twilight gray 

To give her perfect rest ; 
And all the zephyrs of the night 

That tkrough the branches stir, 
Come from your haunts and bring delight 
To her. 

I need not pray that all her days 

Should be like Summer seas, 
And gentle as the wind that plays 

Round fair Hesperides, 
For angels guide her tender feet 

Through meadows sweet with flowers, 
Their ministry will make complete 
Her hours. 

Oh ! spirit of the unseen years 

Upon your wings of light 
Waft far away the thought of tears 

And make her future bright! 
Beat back all griefs that loom afar, 

Still all the sound of strife. 
And touch, as wi^h a morning star, 
Her hfe. 

Far, far away, beyond the dim 

And dusk;^ future haze, 
If she should give a thought to him 

Who now recites her praise — 
It may recall this little song, 

And o'er, her fancy throw 
A sweet remembrance of the long 
Ago. 



94 POKMS 

3Co a 'Vm\^i)th dinger 



Now we have said farewell 
To her who wove a spell 

Around our hearts and with her genius brought 
New beauties to old words, 
As if the song of birds 

Had touched her accents with a charm unsought. 

When shall we hear again 

That voice, whose perfect strain 

Had all the mellow music of the lute? 
When shall our eyes behold 
The form so loved of old. 

And hear soft laughter that to us is mute? 

It seems so long ago 

We saw the footlights glow 

Upon the face that held us in its thrall ; 
It seems as if long years 
Had fled since her sad tears 

Had caused the tears from other eyes to fall. 

But sometimes in the night 
Those threads of lost dehght 

Come with the haimting images of dreams, 
And earth again for me 
Has caught the melody. 

And through the dark a golden radiance gleams ! 

Remembrance with us stays. 
Old dreams of other days, 

Faint tones that vanished in the long ago ; 
Lips that retain the bliss 
Of the fond lover's kiss, 

And voices that we never more shall know! 



POEMS 95 

Are all the triumphs fled 
Like withered roses dead? 

Has all the pathos and the pain, the art, 
Vanished into the night 
As stars that sink from sight 

Leaving a faint impression on the heart? 

Oh ! memory of song, 

Oh ! voice remembered long, 

Oh! peerless face, as lovely as the day; 
I lock it in my breast 
Where it shall ever rest. 

Until the stars shall fall and fade away ! 

I, dreaming here alone, 
Of days forever flown, 

Recalling scenes of pleasure, long, long dead; 
Not hopeless do I grieve 
For in my rhymes I weave 

A crown of roses for her golden head ! 



a Jflotuer 



A blossom of the early Spring 

1 give to thee, 
Oh ! may its fragrance ever bring 

A thought of me ; 
Not like its petals to grow sere 

And fade to dust, 
But linger with thee many a year 

In deathless trust. 

I would not with my verse intrude 

Alone, unsought, 
Upon the virgin solitude 

Of thy sweet thought : 



g6 POEMS 

I would not bring such transient things 

Before thy gaze, 
But tenderly, as one who sings 

A maiden's praise. 

I would be happy if thy bright 

And lustrous eyes 
Should beam upon me, as a light 

From Paradise. 
For all the beauty that we know 

Of that fair place 
Was caught and treasured long ago 

In thy dear face ! 

Not all the fresh and fragrant flowers 

Of Spring arrayed, 
That blossom in the woodland bowers 

'Neath sun and shade, 
Can boast the charm, the grace that gleams 

Where e'er thou art, 
Or fill, like dim immortal dreams 

A poet's heart ! 

No other tribute do I give 

Than this small flower. 
But if it in thy bosom live 

For one short hour. 
Then will I feel that I am blessed 

All earth above. 
To see, upon thy snowy breast 

This bud of love ! 



pop: MS 97 



Witi) ILaugftter anb ^ong; 

(Rondeau.) 



With laughter and song may the dreamy days 
Of youth depart, with its loves and lays, 
The tears we shed, and the songs we sing, 
Time will smooth with its angel wing. 
Smooth as sand where the ocean plays. 

Years may bring us a crown of bays. 
But dearer far is the love that stays. 
Though the young years fled in the sweet of Spring 
With laughter and song. 

'Give me the grace," my sad soul prays, 
'Love, that knoweth but Junes or Mays, 
Love, that of life is the sweetest thing — 
In the dusk of the last sad sun-setting 
To greet the stars through the sunset haze 
With lausfhter and sonsr!" 



JRonbel 



Dear heart, I wonder where you are, 

In what dim region of the skies ! 
That 1 might choose its fairest star, 
And think beyond it my love lies ; 
That I might dream I saw your eyes 
Smile sweetly on me from afar — 
Dear heart, I wonder where you are, 
In what dim region of the skies ! 

Kind angel, leave the gates ajar 

I'hat her pure presence glorifies ; 
Oh ! breathless lips — Oh ! deathless bar — 



98 POEMS 



No ghostly message hither flies ; 

Dear heart, I wonder where you are, 
In what dim region of the skies ! 



®tpf)m^ anb Curpbice 



Eurydice had left her lord 

And by her bier in grief he said, 
"What joy can this bleak world afiford 

Since she is numbered with the dead? 
And since with Pluto she is wed 

To his dark regions will I flee 
And ask her life, now forfeited, 

My love, my lost Eurydice." 

In sadnecjs wanders Orpheus. 

"Oh ! whither wandereth my fair. 
My lyre is mute, and must I thus 

Dwell everymore in my despair? 
Oh ! mountains wake in numbers rare. 

Oh ! fragrant meadows moan with me. 
Your song may sound in that far air 

To greet my love, Eurydice." 

He took his harp upon his arm 

By Acheron he 'gan to play. 
With music sweet he sought to charm 

The surly boatman, but the gray 
Old Charon bore him o'er the spray 

That splashed on Orcus dismally ; 
Where in a dream the dogs-heads lay 

Enravished by the melody. 

Dark Pluto sat upon his throne, 

Beside him fair Persephone ; 
And at his feet the Furies moan — 

Wringing their locks, that serpents be. 



POEMS 

He stood before him fearlessly; 

"I sought these dreary realms below 
To find my iove Eurydice 

In pity give her leave to go." 

He tuned his harp and touched a chord 

And lo ! awoke such harmony 
That even Cerberus, abhorred, 

Fell at his feet; the Furies three 
Wept at the doleful symphony. 

Poor Tantalus forgot his thirst; 
Then ceased Lxion's misery 

And respite came to all accursed. 

She took a wreath of asphodel 

And bound it to her flowing hair, 
And through the fields she knew so well 

Her lord she followed (happy pair), 
Dark Pluto sat within his lair 

Still musing on the music strange, 
And marveling that man should dare 

For love's sake through his regions range. 

So Orpheus with fleet foot sped 

Across the fields, Eurydice 
Still followed where her lover led. 

As tvv flight comes across the lea, 
One look behind, ah, misery! 

That one fond look has said farewell. 
Around her heart Persephone 

Hath bound the fatal asphodel ! 



Still on the grassy hfll of Thrace 
His spirit wanders constantly. 

And every defl and secret place 
StiU echoes with his melody; 



99 



100 POEMS 

The wind upon each cypress tree 
Still moancth for his absent mate, 

The lilies call "Eurydice," 

The myrtles mourn disconsolate. 

Upon the mead of asphodel 

She plucks the flowers, one by one, 
She dreameth of his golden shell 

And of the magic spell he spun 
About the gods. But all is done. 

Alone she wanders on the lea, 
Or sits, by wailing Acheron, 

Alas ! alas ! Eurydice. 



Mv lobe TLit^ JBreamins 



My love lies dreaming! 

Let her dream away, 
Thinking of me the livelong night and day. 
Letting her thoughts float through the mist afar. 
Ah! could I be where her soft fancies are 
In that dear land of dreams, and all the while 
Look in upon her, like a shining star 
To see her sweet lips parted in a smile 
Like a fair rose half-blown. 
And know, that of her love alone 
My love lies dreaming! 

My love lies dreaming! 

Through the Summer hours 
The fragrance of the fair and blushing flowers 
Floats through the casement with a sweet perfume 
And fills the silence of her darkened room: 
But, ah ! that darkness hides a fairer rose 
Than any that in Persia's gardens bloom — 
For wrapped in beauty's rapturous repose 
On other lands and skies, 
Feasting her lustrous eyes, 
My love lies dreaming! 



POEMS lOI 

My love lies dreammg! 

Let her dream again, 
That ever in her sleep shall rapture reign 
And songs celestial make the charm complete ; 
Spirit of Slumber, may her dreams be sweet, 
And filled with visions radiant and rare ! 
Oh ! violets bloom about her tender feet 
And let the heaven-born breezes kiss the hair 

Clustering round her brow! 

But wake her not, for now 
My love lies dreaming!! 

My love lies dreaming! 

Oh I for one soft touch 
Of those dear lips that I have loved so much, 
To look into the depths of those grand eyes 
And feel that in their light life's pleasure lies ; 
To feel her head again upon my breast — 
Her head that all the darkness glorifies. 
And know as on my lips her lips are pressed, 
For me are all her charms. 
For trembling, happy in my arms. 
My love lies dreaming! 



My love lies dreaming ! 

Never shall she wake — 
On her sad sleep no morning light shall break : 
Sleep soft, beloved ! I linger here below 
As one who watches while his comrades go, 
Then, in the dusky twilight, flies alone ; 
Only the midnight stars my sorrow know — 
The silent stars that on her pathvv^ay shone, 

For underneath the bloom 

Of violets , in the tomb 
My love lies dreaming ! 



102 POEMS 



0f)l (gleamins ^tar! 



Oh ! gleaming star above the hill 

That ushers in the night, 
You shone in radiance until 

Earth glistened in your light, 
You led me over hill and dale, 

Through dusky solitude 
Where, waiting in the starlight pale 

A dreaming maiden stood. 

Oh ! star of morning, shining fair 

On heaven's arching dome. 
How oft, when roses scent the air 

You led my footsteps home. 
But oh ! the passion unexpressed, 

That set my face aglow — 
The happiness within my breast, 

\ ou could not dream or know ! 

Oh ! star that gleams above the wood, 

Your dim light falls no more 
Upon the happy girl who stood 

In dreamy days of yore. 
New Junes return and roses bloom 

Like buds from Paradise, 
But in the silence of the tomb 

j\Iy lost love waiting lies ! 

Oh ! gleaming star — shall I again 

In that fair land above. 
See past the clouds of bitter pain 

The face of her I love ? 
Shall I there feel the perfect bliss, 

Too rare, too fleeting here, 
The love that lingers in a kiss. 

Or trembles in a tear? 



POEMS 103 

3trpl£{ of t\)t Jleart 



0n a picture 



Is it some dream? 

Or do I really gaze 
Upon that face whose splendor might amaze 
The worshippers who kneel at Beauty's shrine : 
What eyes are those that look so deep in mine ? 
What lips are those whose parted sweetness seem 
To lisp soft words of tenderness and truth? 
It is the face that all the silence fills 
As morning sunlight breaks upon the hills, 
It is the mystic countenance of Youth ! 

Ah me ! dear face, 
You bring me back the golden long ago 
When all the earth was bathed in Summer glory, 

When a diviner grace 
Lived in the moonlight, and the sunset's glow. 
When through the twilight floated song and story ! 
You bring me back the fair exquisite gleams 

Of beauty, smiling in the night ! 
You bring me back Youth's wild and wistful dreams, 

The strains of soft delight 
That lingers with a radiance ever bright ! 

Fling back the curtains of the Past, 
And let its memories steal 

Across the heart; what does its light reveal? 

Old days when sunshine flitted through the air — 

Old nights, beneath the mellow Summer moon — 
The sound of revelry, of music rare — 
The breath of roses, redolent of June — 
The ripple of light laughter — tender words 
That came as softly as the song of birds 
In the sweet meadows, at the dawn of day — 

Then faint and fainter dies the song way, 



I04 POEMS 

And I alone in the wan twilight stay, 
Dreaming, alone, alone. 
Of every tender tone, 
Of merry days, ah ! now forever flown — 
Forever flown ! 

But not alone I stand, 
P"or wayward fancy fills the deepest gloom 
Until, with memories, a)l the darkened room 

Is bright with visions fair ! 
How beautiful ! But oh, more rich and rare 
Than all the visions in my memory are. 
That face which gleams upon me like a star, 
Surrounded by a wealth of clustered hair! 
Oh ! tender lips, that leave all unexpressed 
The depth of passion in thy breast ; 
Oh ! pensive eyes so haunting and so deep. 
In which so many fairy fancies sleep ; 
Oh ! fair round brow, as white as crystal snow, 
Oh ! faithful heart, where no rude whisperings 
Disturb those thoughts — as soft as angel's wings 
On deeds of kindness wandering to and fro — 
This is the scene that rises, as my eyes 
Rest on the picture that before me lies. 

Turn, oh ! my heart, turn, turn away — 
Nay, do not look again upon that face. 

For it shall ever share 
Within thy soul a fond abiding place. 

Unseen and unaware : 
Its light shall come, whether by day or night, 
Near or afar, a gleam of morning light ; 

Whether thy lot shall be 

On land or sea 
It shall abide in thy sweet memory. 

Seasons may come and go — 
The breath of Spring shall melt the Winter's snow- 
The warm red roses of the June shall spread 

Their fragrance round thy head — 



POEMS 105 

Autumn shall moan above the Summer's grave — 
And over all, the winds of Winter rave : 
But from my heart, no flood of years may take 
The dream which is to me all Paradise I 
Oh ! let me dream again of those dear eyes, 
And dreaming, never wake ! 



0n l^eccibing a liuncfj of Uioletg 



Violets, dainty and sweet, 
Filled with the faint ineffable perfume, 
As when the woods of April are abloom. 
Thrilled at the touch of Springtime's fairy feet. 

Slender and tremulous spray 
Breathing the odors of the dewy lawns, 
Where the nights linger, and the sunny dawns 
Wait wistfully until the break of day. 

Frail bloom., untouched by frost, 
No spirit of the snow could blight those few 
And fragrant buds of God's eternal blue — 
Those memories of a Paradise long lost: 

You banish all the snow. 
And all the thoughts of Winter glide away, 
These frosty fields seem to be the fields of May, 
And in the solitudes the wnld flowers blow. 

The birds sing in the trees, 
The warm red roses of the June are bright. 
The daisies deck the meadows all in white. 
The poppies fling their banners to the breeze. 

Ah ! faint, and dewy flowers ; 
You bring the spirit of the Arden woods 
Where young Orlando, in the solitudes 
Dreamed of his Ganymede the livelong hours ! 



106 POEMS 

Or where Titania sleeps, 
In the Athenian forests far away, 
Where cunning sprites their elfish antics play. 
And Helena for lost Lysander weeps ! 

Or where bold Robin Hood 
Stole lightly through the dusky forest glades ; 
And where Maid Marian, loveliest of maids. 
Waiting her love, in the wan twilight stood. 

Above, the lustrous moon 
Gleams with the iridescent light of yore 
"The light that never was on sea, or shore," 
Rich with a rapture redolent of June ! 

Through the long days, so long! 
The music of old memories subtly steals 
Until the heart unmeasured pleasure feels. 
And all the night has blossomed into song! 

You bring enchanting dreams 
Of Youth and Beauty, whispering soft and low. 
Of vows that only watching nightwinds know 
When through the trees, the tender moonlight 
streams. 

Into each life, some day. 
The breath of Beauty enters ; and the world 
Seems with its magic mystery impearled, 
A glory that can never die away ! 

Into my heart, the breath 
Of these fair violets, has crept unseen. 
To linger though the years should intervene 
And blossom, rare and radiant till death. 

And then, above the tomb. 
Where lies the aching heart, ah ! now at rest, 
Perchance from out the dust above my breast 
Will such a fair and fragrant flower bloom! 



POEMS 107 

And, o'er the grass above, 
If one would stoop, to bear a flower away, 
My heart would start from out the cheerless clay, 
And touch, with it, the dear lips that I love ! 



Hilitf) 

(A Legend.) 



Long years ago, in the heart of France, 
Where the Rhone wanders to the sea. 

Through regions rich with old romance 
And tales of chivalry. 

There dwelt two brothers, such a life 
As nuns who in sweet concord dwell. 

For not the shadow of a strife 
Upon their moments fell. 

Gaston, the elder, ever sought 

The sweet content that study brings, 

But Louis, lighter hearted, thought 
Of more alluring things. 

Gaston had felt a woman's wiles, 

For one to whom his troth was plight 

Bestowed on him but faithless smiles 
And fled, ere her wedding night. 

And so he railed at womankind, 
Striving to keep his brother's heart 

Free from all passion, being blind 
To all, save his own smart; 

And prophesied, if ever should 

A time come when he should grow fond 
Of some fair woman's face, it would 

Break their fraternal bond. 



I08 POEMS 

And the days sped until there came 
A lovely maiden to the town, 

Who in the young heart lit the tlame 
His brother could not drown. 

Her face enraptured with delight 

The youth, but well might he despair 

Of finding favor in her sight; 
And she had wondrous hair. 

Gold as the golden flame that flies 
Before the dawn, the tawny hue 

That in the hearts of lilies lies 
Where Summer breezes woo ! 

And ever wore a golden snake 
About her yellow tresses curled; 

And Louis felt, for her dear sake. 
He would forswear the world ! 

And talked of her, nor would be stilled, 
Until Gaston, to madness stirred. 

Declared his prophecy fulfilled. 
And left without a word. 

He had not seen the maiden yet, 
And of her beauty knew no more 

Than one who hears far off the fret 
Of waters on the shore. 

And day by day did Louis pray 

That she the marriage day would set. 

But to his prayers she answered, "Nay- 
The time has not come yet." 



She came on Gaston in the wood. 

Back from his brows the locks he flung 
And gazed upon her ; then he stood 

As if by serpent stung. 



roEMS 109 

Some potent witchery in her eyes 

Enchanted him, and, trembling there, 

He wondered if in Paradise 
Dwelt spirits quite so fair. 

And from that hour he was her slave ; 

From his old comrades walked apart, 
And people said, "And hear him rave ; 

Now he hath lost his heart !" 

But yet for all the love he bore 

His face grew haggard, and his eyes, 

And his companions marveled more, 
Winning so rich a prize. 

And L.ouis cried, "You would not wed — 
You, that the name of women hate ; 

Why come between us now ?" he said : 
"I must — it is my fate." 

One wise old friar said, "Beware ! 

This woman's love will blight your life ; 
A curse is on her golden hair — 

'Tis Lilith, Adam's wife." 

And cited many an ancient tale 

How many youths her charms destroyed. 

But tears 01 prayers could not avail — 
His love she still enjoyed. 

So they were wed, and to his house 

They walked together, side by side, 
And never under woodland boughs 

Had passed so fair a bride. 

Some say that from the silent wood 

That night a wolf in madness fled ; 
Next morning in the solitude 

They found young Gaston dead ! 



no POEMS 



And no man saw the bride depart — 
So tender cruel, yet so fair : 

But fast around her husband's heart 
Was twined a golden hair. 



Hife anb ©eatf) 



Among the dusty galleries of the past 

My thoughts delight to wander aimlessly, 
Amid those scenes whose recollections last 

Till Time is merged into Eternity ! 
Companion of my dreams, sweet Memory, 

Mine be the lot to wed thee evermore. 
As one who loves the surges of the sea. 

Will dwell upon the billow-beaten shore. 

The bees of Hyblas knew no sweeter cell 

Than I, communing with departed shades, 
Whose spirits through the meadows Asphodel, 

Or seek repose in the Elysian glades ; 
There warriors softly sheathe their stainless blades 

Deep in the hollow galleries of Dis, 
Where holy calms prevail, and naught degrades 

The soul immortalized by Death's cold kiss. 

What precious memories cluster round the tomb, 

(Who lives that mourns not for departed friends?) 
Sweet as the flowers which o'er their ashes bloom 

Amid the tangled grass, which o'er them bends. 
The flowers perish and the wandering winds 

Their petals scatter in a roseate rain 
Like kind words wasted, yet their perfume lends 

An incense to the fire on friendship's fane. 

xA.nd often, at the waning of the day, 

Such wayward fancies o'er my senses steal, 

And, musing on the debt all mortals pay. 
Beside a mossy-covered mound I kneel: 



POEMS III 

What dreaded secret doth this grave conceal ? 

Where roams the guest, who left his mansion here 
To moulder in the dust, and placed a seal 

Upon the Hfeless lips, as if in fear? 

Ages ago the questioner of the Sphinx 

Asked what life was, but only asked in vain: 
The student at the fount of knowledge drinks 

While life is left, but needs must drink again. 
With parched lips and bosom rent with pain 

He cries, lifting to Heaven his o'er burdened brow. 
Unanswered must his prayer for aye remain — 

The stars are still, the gods are silent now. 

Is life the flame which lingers in the lamp, 

Fadeless and fair, vmtil, its oil consumed. 
The dews of death are gathered thick and damp 

Upon the brow, by destiny foredoomed 
To perish almost ere the bud has bloomed ; 

An atom, on the spokes of time revolved; 
A figure, by the lightning flash illumed ; 

Born of the dust, and into dust dissolved? 

Or doth the soul released from pain, and grief, 

Attain a state where birth and death are not? 
Where, in Narvana, blooms no lotus leaf. 

Where pain and passion are alike forgot, 
A clime where pallid poppy-blossoms blot 

The bitter memories of life's sunless shore. 
With life, though lifeless, sorrows enter not 

Where silence reigns, and peace is ever more? 

The soul lives on, when wasted is life's breath; 

The soul lives on, though all this earthly crust 
Is covered with the narrow cells of death; 

The soul lives on, the body falls to dust. 
Who dares affirm his Maker's law unjust? 

Who dreads this earthly habit to resign. 
Or fears with skeptic sophistry to trust 

The wisdom of a Providence divine. 



112 POEMS 

We worship life, and see our brothers die, 

Yet think not of our destined end, in sooth 
Men only seek their joys to multiply. 

While time glides on with avaricious tooth; 
And driving from our hearts the voice of truth, 

Sweet passion steals the sunny south wind's breath, 
And strews red roses in the lap of youth, 

While love lays laurels at the feet of death. 

But why should I in silent sadness mourn? 

I, too, have long desired to lie among 
The multitude who rest in graves forlorn 

And hear above my head the requiem sung. 
I, melancholy, bitterly have flung 

My grief on every wind with me to weep, 
Aweary of the world when life was young. 

Nor dreamed of peace, save in a deathly sleep. 

My soul sits silent, waiting for the day. 

Besides the gloomy banks where dark Styx flows, 
When o'er the waters comes the boatman gray 

And bears me to Eternity's repose. 
Who shall be summoned first to cross? Who knows 

Save He who is the warder of the skies. 
Clothed in the sunshine that forever glows 

And sparkles on the gates of Paradise? 



f ofjn jHcCuUoust) 

(Obit. November 8th, 1885.) 



I. 

The lights are out, the tale is told. 
No more for him Life's stages. 

The curtain that the angels hold 
Has fallen for all ages : 



POEMS 113 

He gained the height o'er pathways steep, 

Where Tragic Art reposes, 
His "Hfc is rounded with a sleep" 

And crowned with Glory's roses ! 

H. 

His marble Hps will speak no more 

No strain of music lingers, 
The sword, which once he nobly bore 

Falls from his faded fingers : 
Only the echoes of the past 

Replete with tears and laughter 
Within our hearts remain, to last 

While Art is left, and after! 

HI. 

His genius hallowed every part. 

Touched by his wondrous magic, 
The breath of life breathed through his art 

And grew divinely tragic. 
With solemn tread across the stage 

Now march his grand creations. 
Some treasured in the classic page. 

Some in the hearts of nations. 

IV. 

See Richard Crookback trembling kneel 

Beseeching God for pardon, 
And Damon's noble figure reel 

In anguish in the garden : 
The outlawed Cade harangues his troops 

And Lear, with frenzied madness 
Beneath the winds and torrents droops 

Filling the stage with sadness. 



114 POEMS 

V. 

Claud Melnotte, dreaming of Pauline, 

And hunchbacked Master Walter, 
While Ingomar, led by his queen. 

Whose footsteps never falter, 
Troop silently before the wraith 

That crossed the sentry's vision, 
And Hamlet, between doubt and faith, 

Dreams on in indecision. 

VI. 

Virginius, noble in despair 

Beside his child confiding. 
Draws o'er her face the sunny hair 

And thus caressing, hiding 
Her sad eyes from the cruel blade ; 

And oh ! his grand eyes glaring 
When Appius, in the prison shades, 

Writhes in his grasp unsparing! 

vn. 

Now brown Othello hears his bride 

For Cassio's sake importune, 
And grim lago gloats aside 

Mocking his friend's misfortune : 
And Brutus, houseless in the storm. 

The wrongs of Rome rehearses, 
And on proud Tarquin's hated form 

Invokes the furies' curses ! 

VIII. 

A later Brutus at his side 

Holding aloft the dagger 
All hallowed with tryannicide, — 

And mark this giant stagger, 
Vv'hen from his brother's lips, he hears 

How wife, child, kinsmen perished, 



POEMS 115 

And vows to wet with bloody tears 
All that the Roman cherished. 

IX. 

All, all are gone, and now we see 

Grand as the playwright's creatures, 
Divested of his mimicry 

riis own beloved features. 
"Vex not his ghost, oh ! let him pass" 

Nor let our anger fret him ; 
Though years may fade as sprays of grass 

We never can forget him. 

X. 

Upon the lips of vanished years 

Made sacred by his story. 
That wept in sorrow with his tears 

And gloried in his glory, 
Still do we hear the piteous tale 

That told of mind o'er clouded. 
And watched his waning senses fail 

In dusk, ere death enshrouded. 

XT. 

Within the depths of heaven's dome 

Where stars in glor}^ slumber 
His spirit too, will find a home 

Among that storied number 
Whose n^mes in golden words appear 

On F"ame*s eternal portals, 
And lauded by each chanting sphere 

Unite with the Immortals ! 

XII. 

Ah ! not for him at Art's surcease 

With not a care molesting 
To pass his closing hours in peace 

Upon his laurels resting; 



Il6 POEMS 

But though to him tliis was denied 
A richer boon was given, 

To step in pride to Garrick's side, 
And sit in Shakespeare's heaven ! 



emoirsi anb i3ortraits( 



Sn iHemoriam 



Soldiers, who shunber in the sunless clay. 
To whom no midnight comes, nor yet the day ; 
That thundered with the cannon of the foe 
In far off fields, where winds of Summer blow, 
How shall we venerate your deeds to-day? 

Here, where the grasses of remembrance grow, 

We wreathe with garlands those who sleep below. 

Upon this day to heroes consecrate, 

In spirit only can we decorate 

Those lonely sepulchres which no men know. 

For some in gloomy wildernesses wait 
The trumpet call, and some have met their fate 
Where the long mosses to the live oaks cling; 
Where shallow seas amid the rushes sing 
At dawn's first flush, or in the twilight late. 

With sorrow, and percliance with tears, we fling 
Upon your graves these blossoms of the Spring; 
Roses, or lilies, and a spray of yew, 
Jev/eled and moistened with the grateful dew 
That memory and love shall ever bring. 

But sweeter than the flowers that we strew 
Upon thy graves, oh ! gallant hearts and true, 
The full-voiced blessings of a grateful land. 
That sheathless sabre nor the battle brand 
Shall taint again those fields with sunset's hue. 



POEMS 117 

In daylight dreams we clasp each absent hand, 
And sadly stroke the faces pale and wanned, 
Whose souls have re-awakened in the light 
That fades or fails not, though the sluggish night 
Creeps slowly on, like tides upon the sand. 

Heroes, whose hearts were stainless as those white 

Unsullied roses, blossoms of delight. 

Pure as the pearls that Winter skies let fall, 

Rest ye, until the judgment trumpets call 

The dead from ocean depths or mountain height. 

Rest on, for silent is the battle's brawl. 
And white-winged peace now hovers over all. 
After the strife, the sorrow and the pain. 
The rest is sweeter, while we who remain 
Regret, but not forget death's drooping pall. 

Sunlight and silence and the Summer rain. 
The leaves' low music and the song-bird's strain, 
The grass, and buds, and blossoms of the May 
Mingle with memories that forever play 
A threnody above our soldiers slain ! 



3n an ^Hjum 



My name here you desire 
And if the muse inspire 
Some verses you require 

To be above it : 
It is a pleasant task 
To grant you what you ask 
And in your favor bask 

By virtue of it. 

Ah me, it seems so long 
Since, beautiful, and strong. 
The golden light of song 
Came stealing o'er me. 



Il8 POEMS 

That I have lost the skill 
To write a rhyme at will, 
But if my heart beat still, 
I'll write one for thee. 

But if then I should write 
A rhyme however slight 
To fill you with delight 

In some brief measure, 
May you in after days 
Beyond life's sunny Mays 
Find that its memory stays 

To give you pleasure. 

To you it may recall 

A figure stern and tall, 

And face whose smiles have all 

Been lost completely ; 
It will recall to me 
Light laughter sounding free. 
Eyes that dance merrily 

And smile most sweetly. 

Fair falls the sunlight now 
Upon your maiden brow 
Grief came not yet to bow 

Your head with weeping, 
Time ever onward glides 
Through scenes the future hides, 
But who knows what abides 

Within its keeping? 

What doth it keep for you ? 
Oh ! tender heart, and true. 
That grace which shall renew 

Thy youth forever. 
That bliss of long ago — 
That peace the angels know — 
To make thy life below 

Unhappy never ! 



POEMS 119 

Whether in lands afar 
Or here thy footsteps are, 
May no ill-boding star 

Its hght cast on thee ; 
For thee no shadows rise, 
But blue unclouded skies 
Bright as thine own fair eyes 

To smile upon thee ! 

Sweet songs and flowers of June 
The mad and merry tune 
Sung to the peerless moon 

With mirth and laughter ; 
May fate for thee entwine 
That touch of things divine, 
And grace and peace be thine, 

Here, and hereafter ! 

And in some distant day 

When naught but memories stay, 

And time has rolled away 

The mists of ages — 
Perchance a tear may start 
As you these wan leaves part. 
For I have left my heart 

Between the pages ! 



Casfter 

It is the morn of Easter — from the towers 

The bells send forth their music through the air, 

And garlanded with Springtime's sweetest flowers 
God's temples are made fair. 

We hear the sacred chant of song and psalter, 

Through mullioned panes the golden sunlight streams, 

And bright and beautiful upon the altar 
The Easter lily gleams. 



I20 POEMS 

Not this the time for prayers penitential, 

Tlie Lenten ashes may be laid away; 
But, after all, thoughts deep and reverential, 

Are with each one to-day. 

For through the glory, through the song and splendor, 
Through all the gladness of the day appears 

The vision of a face divinely tender, 
And eyes all dim with tears. 

Back through the centuries my thoughts are drifting 
To where the pale Syrian stars look down 

Upon that face, its brow to heaven lifting, 
Beneath a thorny crown. 

What wondrous mercy from the skies replenished. 
That font of love for this great sacrifice, 

And from the cross cried gladly, 'Tt is finished!" 
Ere death had closed the eyes. 

In the gray morning when the Marys hastened 
Across the field to where the Saviour lay. 

An angel watched, whose face, by heaven chastened. 
Was brighter than the day. 

"Whom seek ye, Jesus? He is not here, but risen, 
Look, here the tomb deserted, ye may see." 

Ah ! by that resurrection from the prison 
Of death, men's souls are free. 

Oh ! love that tinges nature with its gladness, 
Oh! face that gleams across the years afar, 

We, looking through the dusk of sin and sadness, 
Behold it like a star. 

And follow, as the wise men in the story. 
From the dim East, across the deserts lone, 

Unto that humble stable, where the glory 
Of God upon it shone. 



POEMS 121 

Oh ! in this time of Nature's resurrection, 

When from the tomb of Winter bursts the Spring, 

Send us a tribute of Thy great affection, 
That we may ever sing 

The praises of Thy glory and Thy power, 

While in this house of clay remains the breath ; 

And stand beside us in that happy hour 
Which men misnameth Death! 



Claubian 

(To Wilson Barrett.) 

Down through the meadows, at the eventide 
He comes, a wanderer, sad, and desolate, 
The cruel heart that Heaven long defied, 
Broken and humbled, cries against his fate, 
Oh ! bitter life, oh ! soul unfortunate. 
To what forgetful refuge can he fly? 
Upon strange lands, beneath a sunless sky, 
His bosom gnawed by Memory's marble tooth- 
Doomed to see everything around him die, 
And yet he wanders in immortal youth. 

Gone the delight of living, gone the pride. 
Gone is the haughtiness and heathen hate. 
Into the Lethean stream where passions glide 
And the waves murmur with forgotten freight. 
Men live, and die, their children grow and mate, 
And o'er their graves the lilies bloom and die, — 
His pallid face the thrusts of Time defy, 
His heart is worn with misery, in sooth 
Through the long years, for death his only cry — 
And yet he wanders in immortal youth 1 



122 POEMS 

No friend may ever travel by his side, 
No maid to him her love may consecrate, 
For him no fond caress or kiss of bride, 
Or happy children for his footsteps wait : 
Remorse alone is his confederate — 
Until the lightnings f^ash across the sky; 
The rocks shall open, and a gulf shall lie 
'Twixt him and one slain with so little ruth ; 
Then may the winds about him cease to sigh 
And yet he stands in immortal youth ! 

l'envoi. 
Prince, for thy love, thy hand hath put love by, 
From this sad earth thy stricken soul may fly, 
Blessed by the holy hermit's words of truth ; 
For One shall say, beyond the painless sky — 
And yet he wanders in immortal youth ! 



CfjrisitmasJ €be. 



'Tis Christmas Eve, and all the peopled earth 
In every land or clime, a thought bestow 

On Him who made it glorious ; at whose birth 
The stars sang many centuries ago. 

Ah ! sweet and low, we hear the echoes roll 
Of that glad song, and in the East perceive 

The star of hope that shines on every soul 
On Christmas Eve. 

'Tis Christmas Eve ; outside the chill wind sings 
But bright the firelight flickers, and we dream 

Of all the happiness to-morrow brings 
And see dim pictures in the ruddy gleam ; 

Dear faces that have vanished long ago. 

Lips, that of life and breath have taken leave. 

Break into being from the firelight's glow 
On Christmas Eve. 



POEMS 123 

'Tis Christmas Eve ; from every steeple swells 

The message "Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men !" 

Ring out your welcome tidings, Christmas bells, 
And let the skies reverberate again : 

To lift the souls bowed down with misery — 
To glorify, and gladden those who grieve — 

To heal the hopeless — this your mission be 
On Christmas Eve. 

'Tis Christmas Eve; but many an outcast stands 
Forlorn and shelterless upon the street ; 

The Summer left no roses in their hands 
The Autumn laid no harvests at their feet. 

Bid them rejoice, like others, if you can ; 
Banish their discontent — make them believe 

Man hath no inhumanity for man, 
On Christmas Eve. 

On Christmas Eve, let every heart unite 
In doing deeds of kindness. Let us aim 

To fill homes, dark and desolate, with delight ; 
To win the hearts that cold and hunger claim. 

Time garners all, and faithfully repays : 

Who gives, in fourfold measure shall receive. 

So shall all voices rise in hymns of praise 
On Christmas Eve. 



Jlrofeen tlrus^t 



In the Summer's dawn when the fields were fair 

(Oh! fair was the face of the maiden), 
Together they walked in the perfumed air, 
For Summer was made for lovers to share 
(And the meadows with flowers were laden.) 

For the sun rained kisses on the grass, 
And soft winds sought to adore her ; 



124 POEMS 

The daisies wondered to see her pass, 
And the meadows marveled how fair she was. 
And the buttercups bowed before her. 

In the fairy fields he has spoken a word 

(Ah! sweet was the voice of her lover), 
Sweet as the heart of the daisy, stirred 
To love at the song of a Summer bird. 
And the skies grew sunny above her. 

The daisies withered and faded away 
(Pale grew the skies above her). 
He will never come back, all the meadows say, 
For love is light as the ocean spray. 
And lost is many a lover. 

Hearts wither, too, as the daisies fade 

(Ah! false is the heart of her lover), 
Men may forget, but never the maid 
Till the heart is under the daisies laid 
And the buttercups blow above her. 

There is no rose on her cheek to kiss 

(A.las ! for the last word spoken), 
Their bloom has gone with her bosom's bliss, 
And the daisies wonder how wan she is ; 
And her heart is well nigh broken. 



Over the meadows the daisies grow 

(Ah! sweet was the voice of her lover), 

Sweet as the Summers of long ago ; 

But under their feet the maid lies low. 
And the buttercups blow above her. 



POEMS 125 

lallabe of tlje Wi^tM Heart 



The woods are withered, brown and sere, 

The brooks through faded meadows sing, 
The yellow corn hangs in the ear. 

And bright the golden apples swing. 
The bluejay makes the woodland ring 

And eke the huntsman's hollow, 
But days so sweet must soon take wing, 

I would that I might follow. 

How sweet the forest fruits appear, 

The dainty frost grapes clustering, 
Upon the gorgeous mountain mere 

Where chestnut trees their treasures fling; 
And sun-browned children gathering. 

Make merry hill and hollow. 
Oh ! youth, whatever joys you bring, 

I would that I might follow. 

If Autumn's season is so dear, 

Oh! heart, what song shall Summer sing? 
The harvest time of life draws near, 

'Tis welcome, love is whispering: 
The birds depart with silent wing, 

Farewell ! oh. Summer swallow, 
Until the winds be winds of Spring, 

I would that I might follow. 

l'envoi. 

Oh ! life, what pleasure canst thou bring 

To fill my heart's sad hollow, 
Since youth and love have taken wing, 

I would that I might follow. 



126 POEMS 



S^allabe of ©lb ^ongg 



A glimmer of wit, and a dearth cf rhyme 

A catching air (as the people say), 
Whistled and hummed for a fortnight's time, 

These are the songs that are sung to-day ; 

But a song that lives as the echoes play 
When the lips no longer the bugle blow. 

Like the songs of the sea, that resound alway- 
'Tis one of the songs of the long ago. 

With themes that were old in Burns' prime. 

And thoughts as dry as the leaves that lay 
In the wind-swept woods, in the Autumn time, 

These are the songs that are sung to-day ; 

But an odorous breath from the far Cathay, 
Or the Orient land where the roses blow. 

With a spirit as tender and sweet as they — 
'Tis one of the songs of the long ago. 

No dainty lyric, or verse sublime. 

But a pasquinade from the latest play 
Over the footlights sung for a dime. 

These are the songs that are sung to-day; 

But whenever the years seem to glide away 
And we laugli with the merry Mercutio, 

Or tramp with the Friar in orders gray — 
'Tis one of the songs of the long ago. 

L 'envoi. 

Life, with its pleasures, bright and gay, 
These are the songs that are sung to-day; 
But around from the lips that are lying low 
'Tis one of the songs of the long ago. 



POEMS 127 



Snber£ion ag Juliet 



A breath of sunny Italy, faint blown 
From ages living in old chronicles 
Sweet as the solemn notes of convent bells 
That murmur in a mystic monotone ; 
The dusky shadow of that hapless twain, 
Whose souls entwined, sprang to the starry sky 
Still haunts the gloomy sepulchre where lie 
The withered roses of love early slain. 

But thou hath raised her spirit from the tomb, 
A blossom, broken by the winds of Fate : 
Again we feel the gladness and the gloom, 
Where love grew, 'twixt the crevices of hate : 
Ah ! never mortal so divinely fair 
W^ith Death asleep upon her yellow hair ! 



^ illemorp of ^ennpgon 

BALLADE. 

Between the day-star and the dawn, 

Down rosy tides that fairer grow 
Upon our bark by zephyrs drawn. 

We reach a shore no chart doth show. 
"What isle is this? We fain would know;" 

The dwellers paused, then answered one 
Soft as the horns of Elfland blow, 

"The Valley of Avilion." 

There gleameth many a fairy lawn 
And happy orchards, row on row; 

Rich beds of roses, lilies wan, 
And fields of wheat that golden glow 



128 POEMS 

Without a hand to reap or sow; 

Dirn vales the sim ne'er looked upon, 
The streams that mirror in their flow 

The Valley of Avilion. 

In sylvan shadows lurks the fawn, 

No bird or beast here feareth foe, 
No nights advance, no grave doth yawn, 

Nor ever falls of rain or snow, 
Nor ever wind doth pipe, or blow, 

Or blossoms wither^ for the sun 
Hath never sunken yet below 

The Valley of Avilion. 

L 'envoi. 

Prince Arthur, first of all that go 
With those good knights, now dead and gone, 

Here rest, for never enters woe 
The Vallev of Avilion. 



a Cfjrij^tmaiS Carb 



Dear friend, this is the merry Christmas time, 
No art have 1 to weave a rapttired rhyme 

Filling the frosty hours with sunny splendor, 
Or made enchanting with a thought sublime. 

II. 

Only the echoes of the days gone by, 
Memories of dreams too beautiful to die 

Abide with me,' but oh! so sweetly tender 
I must perforce, Hft up my voice and cry — 



POEMS 129 

III. 

A song for Christmas, with glad music bring 
Words sweeter than did ever voices sing, 

Songs that are born of melody and laughter 
To brighten Winter with a smile of Spring. 

IV. 

Oh ! faint and clear, and hke a distant air 
Low chanted by a monk at vesper prayer — 

The music dies away, but ever after 
It comes a guest, unseen, and unaware. 

V. 

And if with us some precious memory stays 
Of moonlit-haunted nights, or merry days, 
Sad sunsets of memorial Septembers, 
Rose-burdened Junes, or violet-laden Mays, 

' VI. 

No twilight whitened by December snows 
Can mar that memory, or from out the rose 

Of sweet remembrance pluck the sacred embers 
Of dreams that linger when the Summer goes. 

VII. 

Ah ! in each heart some grief hath hiding place,. 
And thinking of some loved and lost one's face 

We feel again the touch of faded fingers 
And eyes that shine with a diviner grace ! 

VIII. 

But "Merry Christmas" rings across the earth, 
The night has vanished, and the dawn gives birth 

To this glad song that thrills and throbs and 
lingers, 
Until men tire of music and of mirth ! 



130 POEMS 



aifreb 3Cennps(on 



As some grand soul upon a mountain height 
Begirt with wastes of everlasting snow, 
Still looks afar, where crystal rivers flow 

Through meadows bathed in Summer's mellow light 

He stood, and sang of every wondrous sight ; 

We hearkened to his minstrelsy, and lo ! 

We saw the fields where golden apples grow, 
And beauty smiles, untouched by death, or night. 

Beyond the shadow of the unseen bars. 
Reverberant with breath of poets blown 
Around the dream-clad haunts of spirits flown, 

He still remains, his face among the stars, 
His light as ever-during as their own ! 



a ©ream 



When misery fell, like a knell that is sounded in hell. 
On the earth that is cursed, since the first of mankind 

hither came, 
Where Liberty slept in the clay that hath kept but 
her name, 
Nor dreamed of defence in the tents where the desolate 
dwell, 

I, loving the right, in the heart of the fight, with de- 
light, 
Where the heavens hung low, with my face to the 

foe, did I go, 
Where the people were crushed, and their voices were 
hushed in their woe. 



POEMS 131 

Through the dust, and the smoke, and the vapors that 
choke in the night. 

At the hands of the slave, who is brave in the strength 
of his lord, 
By the lip and the pen, and the malice of men that are 

strong, 
I was driven to flee from a land that is riven with 
wrong ; 
Where Freedom lay chained, and Tyranny reigned with 
the sword. 

But I said as I fled with the scorn of the world at my 
back — 
With the scorn that is born of oppression, of wrong 

and of crime, 
I have toiled, but am foiled in my mission, my hope 
for a time^ 
'Gainst the scourge, and the shame, and the curses that 
came in its track. 

But over the meadows where hover the shadows of 
death, 
Where the stain of the slain has empurpled the plain, 

and the stars 
Grow red with the dread of the dead and the fury of 
Mars, 
Comes Pity the while to beguile with her smile and her 
breath. 

Still, to feel that the wheel of the car that hath Justice 
for rider, 
May roll o'er the soul that is bending the fallen above, 
May beat with her feet, that are shod with the heat 
of God's love, 
The angel that heals, and the soldier that reels faint be- 
side her. 



132 POEMS 

When the morn that is born of the travail the sorrows 
of nig'ht, 
As a bud that is bursting, where deserts are thirsting 

for rain, 
When its flags are unfurled, and the world all em- 
pearled in its train. 
From such a daybreaking will Freedom awaken in 
might. 

Still under the thunder, we dream of a glorious morrow, 
When hushed is the rattle of battle, and murmurings 

cease, 
When the sod that was trod by the war-horse shall 
blossom in peace. 
And we dream of the gleam of the land that is stranger 
to sorrow. 

We dream in delight at the sight of a vision so sweet, 
Where no fear of the tear, and the bier, shall com- 
mingle with joy. 
Where pleasure, a treasure that grief nor regret can 
alloy, 
Is a dower to all, as the flowers that fall at our feet. 

As a bird that is heard in the sweetness, the stillness of 
night, 
Through the gloom of the tomb, through tke dark- 
ness, and dusk of the graves. 
The rain, and the roar, on the shore that is whitened 
with waves, 
Is the whisper that tells of the splendor that dwells in 
its light. 

With a heart that is part of mankind, and pulsates in 
its pain, 
With a splendor of soul that is tender with pity and 

truth, 
With faces all fearless, and tearless, and flaming with 
truth, 
We wait at the gate, where kind fate brings the saved 
and the slain. 



POEMS 133 



a pallabe of J^lapers^ 



To touch with tender rays 

The heart and soul, and spread 
Their light through hidden ways 

Wherever foot doth tread ; 
The joy of beauty bred, 

The scorn that makes men smart 
Despair uncomforted — ■ 

This is the players' part. 

They resurrect old plays, 

Old customs that have fled, 
The dreams of other days, 

Of maidens garlanded ; 
Heroes whose souls have sped 

Out from the darkness start, 
To paint the quick and dead — 

This is the players' part. 

What though no critics praise, 

Somewhere sad tears are shed, 
Some hand will weave the bays 

To place upon the head 
That brings delight, or dread 

To all, and perfect art. 
With nature nobly wed — 

This is the players' part. 

l'envoi. 

Melpomene, long dead. 

Once woke the pitying heart. 

To follow where she led : — 
This is the players' part. 



134 POEMS 



tErans{lationjs(===Panabe of JBtah Habiesi 



(After Villon.) 

Ah ! who can say in what dim zone 

Trips Flora o'er the meadows green ; 
Where have Hipparchia, Thais flown, 

Whose beauty none might choose between? 
Where, where is Echo, ever unseen. 

Though field and stream hear her reply. 
Whose face was of immortal sheen — 

But where do last year's snowflakes lie? 

Where's Aloyse, whose love alone 

Brought Abelard such sorrow keen? 
Who, for his passion to atone 

Became a monk of humble mien ; 
And in what region dwells the queen 

At whose word Buridan must die 
And sail in secret down the Seine — 

But where do last year's snowflakes He? 

Queen Blanche, the fairest lily known. 

Whose voice no siren hadji I ween. 
Bertha, Beatrice, Alice, own 

With Ermengarde, what shores unseen? 
The maid betrayed by English spleen 

Whose soul from Rouen's stake must fly. 
Where is she ? Queen she might have been — 

But where do last year's snowflakes lie? 

l'envoi. 

Prince, though a week should intervene. 

Or yet a year, but this reply 
From every answer you may glean — 

But where do last year's snowflakes He? 



POEMS 135- 

€ntitleb: Wl}t OTIar ?|orsJes( 

(From the Koran.) 



C. 

By the war horses galloping swiftly to battle, 
The hoofs which strike fire, the clash and the rattle, 
Against the hard stones in the dnsk of the morning 
And sudden the enemy strike without warning — 
The troops unbelieving are met with the sword, 
Yet man is ungrateful and false to the Lord ! 
He himself witnesses, greater his love 
For the treasures of life than the treasures above ; 
Doth he not know when the dead shall be risen. 
When the thoughts of their hearts shall emerge from 

their prison, 
That God shall discover each act and each word? 
For naught in the earth or the heavens afford 
A shelter unseen from the eves of the Lord ! 



^i)t Eing of artjule 



There was a King in Thule 
Faithful unto the grave 

To whom his dying mistress 
A golden sceptre gave. 

His sceptre, crown or kingdom, 
He loved not near so deep. 

And when he drank out of it 
He could not choose but weep. 

When death came his dominions 
He freely gave his heir. 

Not so his golden goblet ; 

That was his own heart's share. 



136 POEMS 

'Twas at the royal banquet 
With all his knights sat he 

In his ancestral castle, 
His castle by the sea. 

There stood the gray-haired monarch 
And drank life's farewell glow, 

Then threw the hallowed goblet 
Down to the waves below. 

He saw it splashing, filling, 

And sinking in the sea ; 
His eyes grew sad and heavy 

And never more drank he ! 



tKfje ^ttjo ^atl)£( 



Brother, before us lies the narrow path 
Leading through deserts to the blessed land ; 
Here, too, doth lie the pathway wide, which hath 
Sweet pleasures and fair flowers on either hand ; 
Here on the threshold of our lives we stand. 
Oh ! let us walk where flowers eternal blow, 
And share the glory of the aftermath. 
Brother, shall we go? 

Brother, the way is weary, and our feet 
Are bruised and bleeding with the thorns and stones 
That line our pathway ; ah ! could we retreat 
Beyond the songs of sorrow, and the tones 
Of anguish, where some footsore pilgrim moans. 
With hollow eyes, and bosom rent with woe, 
Could we return to where the pathways meet, 
Brother, would we go? 

Oh ! world, so full of pleasure and of pain, 

Let me steal through your ways with listless eyes. 



POEMS 137 

There is no comfort here, for joy is slain 
In the blank dread that ever onward flies. 
Happy the child, who never dreams what lies 
In the dim future, where the Parcse sow, 
If we could turn to childhood's days again, 
Brother, should we go? 

Mourn not the dead Sea fruit of vanished days, 
Fear not, my brother, when the time shall come 
That leads us forth from these dark, weary ways, 
For though the heart with suffering be dumb, 
And eyes be wan with weeping, haply some 
Sweet memory will bid me whisper low 
(As one who, in a silent cloister prays). 
Brother, shall we go? 

Lift up your hearts and in true gladness sing; 
What though the years be fraught with misery; 
They will plead for us, as an offering. 
To show the depth of our adversity. 
And we shall wander on, eternally. 
When on our heads Time sifts its flakes of snow, 
Through fragrant paths, where all is blossoming. 
Brother, we shall go. 



iWanila pap 



There was darkness on the deep. 

Where our ships at anchor lay. 
There was silence, but no sleep. 

As we waited for the day. 
Glad were we as its rosy tints appeared. 

"Up anchor !'' Far ahead 
Where the Spanish squadron rode. 

We were anxious to be led. 
Not a face a tremor showed. 

Not a seaman the result e'er feared. 



138 POEMS 

From the batteries on shore 

A warning cannon comes, 
Followed by the sullen roar 

Of the rolling of the drums 
As our fair and fearless fleet they descried ; 

Oh, our spirits blithely rose 
As we saw the signal fly, 

"Turn your guns against your foes !" 
And we answered it on high ; 

Our countrymen know well how we replied. 

It was grand, that sight, and sweet, 

At the dawning of the day. 
Far away the Spanish fieet 

On the sunlit waters lay, 
Fated never more a sunrise to behold ; 

For a broadside from our ships 
Sent them flying to and fro. 

What a cheer rose from our lips 
As they reeled before that blow — 

In the annals of the sea be it told. 

What could stand against our guns 

Or our gimners' faultless aim? 
Not the bravest of Spain's sons 

For we put them all to shame. 
Every charge showed our seamen at their best ; 

Solid shot and screaming shell 
Raked their vessels fore and aft, — 

One by one their banners fell — 
One by one each gallant craft 

In the waters or the flames found its rest. 

Did we falter in the fight? 

Not a vessel, to the last ; 
Not a brave soul winged its flight. 

Not a color left the mast ; 
But the vessels of the foe, where are they? 



POEMS 

There was death upon the sea, 
There was ruin on the shore, 

There was cannon on the lea, 
On the windward^ strife as sore — 

Only rest at the bottom of the bay. 

To the Commodore a cheer — 

Daring Dewey, first on sea, — 
First fair victory of the year 

Of the many yet to be ; 
And another for the gallant Yankee tars ; 

Who among us is so base 
To withhold the laurel due, 

Or refuse Fame's highest place 
To the heroes, brave and true. 

Who serve 'neath the banner of the Stars ? 



139 



33oem of tfje Snnibersfarp dinner of tlje 
Cfjirb battalion "Veteran Ssijsociation 

(December 2, 1891.) 



Within this hall which echoes with command. 
The roll of drums, and clamor of the band, 
Here, where the ranks in lines imbroken wheeled 
Like mimic squadrons on the tented field ; 
Here, where the merry laugh of maidens fair 
Rang musically on the midnight air, 
We meet again ; not while the war drums roll, 
But for a "feast of wit, and flow of soul." 

A soldier's life is hardship at the best. 
Reckless of danger, scorning sleep and rest, 
His valiant nature trembles for the fray 
And marches where his duty points the way. 



140 POEMS 

His path IS not with summer roses strewn, 

And Hfe for him is not a merry tune : 

The midnight march, the hurried call to arms — 

The sentry's shout — the charge — the war's alarms — 

The watch, when wearily the moments drag — 

The fierce attack, in honor of the flag, 

The bombs that hurtle through the dusky air, 

The death, that lurks in waiting everywhere. 

The cannonading, and the battle's strife — 

These are the roses of a soldier's life. 

Peace to their conquests ; this is not the time 
To paint the glories of a war sublime, 
For there are times when even soldiers feel 
Delight in more than battle's fierce appeal. 

Here do we meet, the day to celebrate 

That linked our proud battalion to the State. 

We gather, while the fleeting moments pass 

To pledge allegiance in the social glass. 

To spend a festive hour, and renew 

The comradeship of every "boy in blue." 

For once we are of equal rank ; here all 
Are welcome, whether he be great or small. 
The men who set the pillars of our State 
On one plane set the humble and the great ; 
The laurel crown of fame is the reward 
Of those who bore a gun, or wore a sword, 
And those whose dust the sands Virginian claim 
Who died unwept, and are unknown to fame 
Are still remembered on that mournful day 
When to the dead each one some reverence pay 
To those who toiled unhonored in the ranks. 
The Nati'on gives its prayers and its thanks. 
What though he wears a private's humble cap. 
Or bears the stars upon his shoulder strap. 



POEMS 141 

The Third Battalion, with it ever comes 

The blare of bugle, and the roll of drums. 

Memories of marches many weary miles. 

Memories of camp, when summer's glad sun smiles ; 

We see the gleaming squadrons form in line 

And watch the sunlight on the muskets shine. 

We see the rosy flush of early dawn 

Peep wistfully across the Sea Girt lawn, 

The sunrise gun salutes the morning air 

And in the heavens floats our banner fair; 

On every side the fifes and drummers play 

The merry music of the Reveille ; 

The camp awakes, the streets are filled with men 

And each takes up a soldier's life again ; 

We see the guard mount, see the soldiers go 

To rifle practice in the pits below ; 

The signal corps are waving from the hill, 

We hear the musketry at skirmish drill ; 

We see the lines, a moving mass of blue. 

With measured cadence passing in review, 

And in the evening, in one rank arrayed, 

We see them silent stand at dress parade. 

Loud roll the drums, and as the music stops, 

The sunset gun is fired, the banner drops ; 

Tentward the legions go, and over all 

Serene and silently the shadows fall. 

Then sweet and low, and musical and clear 

The bugle's notes fall softly on the ear. 

Their mellow cadence lingers with a thrill, 

"Lights out," "Lights out," and then, the camp is still 

Save for the sobbing on the sea-beat shore 

That murmurs, murmurs, murmurs evermore! 

But to recall such tender scenes as these 
But half completes a soldier's memories. 
For recollections come of merry days. 
The many pranks, the joking soldier plays — 



142 POEMS 

The mock processions, and the moonhght dance, 
The fiery warwhoop as the "red men" prance, — 
The messhouse grumblers ; who does not recall 
The strife and struggle in the dinner hall? — 
The midnight prowler on some mischief bent, 
To steal a cot, or overturn a tent — 
The reckless raw recruit, who strives so hard 
To win small fame by running past the guard. 
The trips across the field to Manasquan ; 
The shock, to wake and find your bottle gone ; 
Who ever knew so many sickly men, 
Or in one place saw so much medicine? 

But farewell, folly ! Other things we find 
To vex our brains, or occupy our minds. 
For you must hold the honor of our State 
Stainless in war ; in peace, inviolate ; 
Give its fair name the beauty of a dream 
And set its fame where stars in glory gleam ! 

The time may never come when you shall go 

To set your martial faces to the foe. 

But in the conflict if unseen you fell. 

And only battle thunder said, "Farewell," 

Though no grand orator should give you tongue, 

And you should sink unhonored and unsung, 

Remember that upon a starry scroll 

Your name would shine in Death's great muster roll. 

So, friends, the memory of this night shall stay 
Until the mist of years shall roll away, 
And those few lucky mortals who remain 
May live this pleasant evening o'er again. 
In silence they may take each other's hand, 
And with a look that all shall understand 
Recall the hour when so many met 
And look back to its pleasures with regret. 
So may the radiance of the kindly light 
That marks your faces this December night 



POEMS 143 

Forever cause the friendly heart to swell 

And bring a tear as each one says "Farewell!" 



WBoman 



(,A poem written to a friend after a trip on Long 
Island Sound.) 



Do you remember, friend, that summer day, 

When pleasantly the hours slipped away, 

As through the waters, round Long Island shore, 

The Sirius her course unswerving bore? 

Wiser than all the dancers at our side. 

We held our seats, and, in seclusion tried 

To solve the problem that had vexed each mind, — 

"The influence of Woman on Mankind." 

You thought and said (and gave good reason, too) 

That should make every doubter take your view, 

Their presence was a blessing to the earth, 

We could not over-estimate their worth. 

With facts you bolstered up your arguments. 

Now, though it is rather late to discuss 
The question started on the Sirius, 
I wish to add, in very humble rhyme, 
The sentiments I cherished at the time. 

You are aware, my friend, that in the Ust 
Of many, I am called "misogynist," 
But what of that? If I am competent 
To judge, my fitness is self-evident. 

In every age since first the world began 
Her spirit has been wiser. "Man, proud man," 
Intent on power and wealth, and what it gives, 
Pursues a path, and cares not how he lives. 
If over others he can rise supreme. 



144 POEMS 

For but to be above all is his dream; 

H»." treads the mountain tops, amid the forms 

Made mighty to withstand the fiercest storms, 

But to each one at last there comes a time 

When, racked with cares, and tired of the sublime, 

He leaves the peaks, for deep within his breast, 

A spirit cries for peace, for love and rest. 

What is ambiiion, power, now to him? 
The distant vales, all beautiful and dim, 
Shine fair beneath him ; laughing rivers run 
Through meadows, where the daisies greet the sun 
And violets gleam shyly on the lawn. 
Where birds are singing merrily at dawn ; 
The gladness and the beauty of a dream 
Is present in the meadow, wood and stream ; 
Here woman reigns, in sylvan scenes like these, 
Where care and sorrow are but memories, 
For she can sorrow soothe, and banish care, 
And make our griefs, like bubbles, fade in air. 

But let us not assert that woman's days 

Are spent alone in life's alluring ways. 

In times when friends have hastened from our side 

Steadfast she sta\s, by sorrows fortified: 

It to be just and fearless is her way. 

What of her truth and virtue shall I say? 

Her faith, that stands unshaken through the storm 

Of doubt and frailt\- beat upon her form; 

Her purity, unsullied as the flower 

That on the lily blossomed, in the bower 

Of Paradise, before the flaming sword 

Gleamed at the gate, by mandate of the Lord ! 

And of her bravery let soldiers tell. 

Who in the fiery front of battle fell, 

A-^d saw the black-robed Sisters o'er the grass 

.-11 red with blood, like blessed angels pass. 

'^':e'r ministry the soldiers' sufferings soothed. 

--^d the pale brow of death, the features smoothed. 



POEMS 145 

In scenes more fearful than the battlefield 
Have sufferers to their charity appealed ; 
When some foul pestilence, with noisome breath, 
Swept o'er the city, crying only "Death," 
When from its portals, men in terror fled, 
They stood like lonely watchers with the dead. 
With plague and pestilence began the strife, 
And nursed the weary sufferers back to life. 
But not in scenes of suffering alone 
Are woman's worth and countless virtues known. 
Her lips are hallowed with the touch of truth. 
To age gives reverence, and counsel, youth ; 
Honor, with her, is something more than name, 
And vice before her hangs its head in shame. 

Wherever man some new delight would find, 

With woman's wit his wisdom is combined; 

Without them men will wander aimlessly. 

Seeking some solace for their misery. 

Do what they w'ill, a sense of loss remains. 

Save in a circle where a woman reigns. ^ 

Her presence lends enchantment to the place. 

For mirth and laughter follow her sweet face. 

Oh ! peerless Woman, the Creator's hand 

Had shaped all creatures else, ere he had planned 

This spirit more than angel,- and had given 

To earth a creature fairer than in Heaven. 

.Sweet as a rosy morn in Paradise, 

The wondrous beauty of her face, her eyes 

Have caught the glory of the stars, and gleam 

With all the perfect beauty of a dream ; 

From her sweet lips no jarring accents fall. 

Only her murmur, mild and musical. 

Soft words and sweet as in the dawn of Spring, 

The birds returning from the Southland bring. 

Dear Goddess of this minstrelsy, I lay 
These tributes at thy feet, and simply say. 



146 POEMS 

Let man forget the country of his birth, 
And Hke a wanderer roam across the earth ! 
P"riend turn away from friend, and sorrows ghde 
And sit a spectre at each fireside. 
Let happiness be banished from our sight, 
The sunHght fade away, and palHd night 
Look down forever on a barren shore, 
Untrodden, silent, only for the roar 
Of restless seas, that murmur as they flow, 
Of golden days that vanished long ago ! 
But let her stay, to fill our hearts with joy 
A.nd happiness that no grief can alloy. 
Let us remember that, while she remains. 
Life has its pleasures, think not of its pains. 
Still will her virtues be remembered long, 
The hope of youth, the spirit of each song, 
And I shall ever through the fading years 
Thus pay the tribute of my love and tears. 

This is my argument. I will conclude 

By hoping our debate will be renewed 

At some propitious time when we can raise 

Our voices in their honor and their praise. 

And until Heaven for my spirit sends. 

Numbered, I hope, among your dearest friends 

Will be the writer; if I do not sign 

His name — no matter — it is just like mine. 




jMemorial abbresig 

(To Newark Council, No. 150, K. of C, January 7, 

1906.) 



We have assembled at the call of our Council t6 
commemorate to-day those of our brothers who have 
passed into the great hereafter. These solemn cere- 
monies, carried out in that impressive and dignified 
manner characteristic of the Knights of Columbus, attest 
the depth of our feeling and make the memory of the 
dear departed more luminous with the light of our love ! 

The New Year, a bark freighted with golden hopes 
and fortunes, awaits us, and as we are about to embark 
upon it and sail away for unseen shores, we pause a 
moment with tender solicitude and look about to see if 
all our loved ones are with us. But alas, some who 
voyaged with us before are missing, and we hark bade 
into the dusky galleries of the past, recalling their 
faces, regretting their absence, remembering their ex- 
cellencies, their favors, their virtues ! 

There was a time when they welcomed the New Year 
with shout and song; there was a time when they gath- 
ered as we do to-day and wept for the fallen ones, and 
as they dropped silently into the night — so shall we all, 
the inheritors of their smiles and sorrows, some day be 
mourned by those who follow us, when, if we are 
worthy, we shall receive the tribute of their tears. 

Gayly our bark sails on without them, the morning 
breeze fills its snowy sails, and the morning sun bathes 
it in its mellow light, the music plays and the singers 
chant their melodies, the tremulous twilight will come 
on and we will feel the gracious benediction of the stars, 
but a shadow falls across our hearts as we look back 
through the mist of smiles and tears and heart throbs 
and realize that they, our best and bravest, shall sail 
with us no more ! 



1 50 ADDRESSES 

And yet our immortal belief in immortality still holds 
them present — they are not dead, they cannot be d;ad 
whose thoughts and impulses and desires and aspira- 
tions sway us to-day ; they are around us in the im- 
palpable presence of the spirit. As the angels pasjed 
through the land of the Pharaohs and left their marks 
upon the thresholds of the Egyptians, so have our dead 
left behind them in every household their traces to tell 
us that their power is not gone. 

We gaze upon the child in the cradle and see upon 
his tiny features the look of one above whose head the 
grasses waved, years before he was born ! From ihe 
laughing face of the blushing schoolgirl how often have 
we seen the haunting eyes of one asleep benen.th the 
snow ! In the tones and manner of the youth who first 
arises before his comrades and pleads for a cause, some 
gray-haired man will say, "He has his father's voice as 
I heard him long ago !" 

The works of man are but monuments to the mem- 
ory of the dead; the solemn temples, the gorgeous pal- 
aces, the vast bridges binding the distant shores, tne 
great highways with the glistening rails going on and 
on until they are lost to view, the masterpieces of in- 
tellect, living words which thrilled humanity in ages 
past — all these are the work of hands long folded in 
the lap of earth! 

So death does not conquer — "nothing that is shall 
perish utterly, but perish only to revive again"" — and 
though craft and cunning and crime aspire against mor- 
tality, the unterrified spirit still may cry, "Oh, d-'.ith, 
where is thy victory?" 

Socrates, drinking the hemlock, saluted death all un- 
dismayed, for he knew that his spirit, more potent than 
the potion of his executioners, was not vancjuished, but 
in his philosophy would endure until the end of days. 

The Christian maidens martyred in the Roman arena 
for the pleasure of Pagan princes, laughed in the face 
of the Numidian lion and were not afraid, for they saw 



ADDRESSES 



i5r 



the laureled crown awaiting them on high and gained 
their victory above the stars. 

Arnold Winkelreid, rushing on the lances of the en- 
emy, cried "make way for liberty," and died, but by 
this sacrifice he enabled his kinsmen to fall upon the foe, 
and by his very death v/on the victory. 

Joan of Arc, whose white soul winged its flight from 
the fiaming fagots at Rouen, was not conquered, for 
the land she fought for and the land she wrought for, 
inspired by her deeds and death, drove the invader's 
footsteps from France. 

Nathan Ilale, the patriot spy, whose last words upon 
the scafTold were, "I only regret that I have one life tc 
give for my country," was not vanquished, for his patri- 
otic speech aroused his comrades to greater deeds, and 
from the ashes of such as he the tree of liberty uprose 
to spread its grateful shelter over all. 

At Balaklava the poet tells us that into the Valley 
of Death rode the six hundred, in the glorious charge 
of the Light Brigade, and when they came back, back 
through the jaws of death, those who were left behind 
were not lost ; they were grander in death for the charge 
they made, and so the "six hundred" will be revered as 
long as the meteor flag of England sweeps the main ! 

For as Boyle O'Reilly says, "No nation has ever lost 
a man who is stronger in death than in life," and the 
Manchester martyrs who, upon the gallows high, cried 
"God save Ireland," as they were launched into eternity, 
left an inspiration in that prayer which hate cannot sub- 
vert nor tyranny subdue. 

Abraham Lincoln^ who forged anew in the cata- 
clysmic flame of war the links which bound State to 
State, was stricken down in the triumphal hour, but like 
his prophet, John Brown, his soul goes marching on, 
and above the clouds still may his spirit smile upon a 
land serene, and blest and at peace ! 

And v^'hen Pilate condemned the son of man to death, 
and the cross rose black against the sky in that dark 



152 ADDRESSES 

night when the vale of the temple was rent in vain, and 
the sheeted dead appeared upon the street, — they 
thought that this was the end of all — but the morning 
dawned, the angels came, the door of the sepulchre was 
rolled away and by that death new life was given to all 
men, from the days of the prophets to the countless 
days that are to be ! 

Remembering these things, why should we mourn? 
So this should not be an occasion for tears ; rather it is 
for reflection; yes, and for rejoicing that those of our 
brothers who have gone before are past the narrow 
walls of life and inherit the glory prepared for them 
from the foundation of the world ! We rejoice that 
One on high has said to them, "I will bestow upon thine 
eyes eternal light ! Let them be filled with the light of 
countless suns, with the light of endless days, from 
morning glow to evening glow, from evening glow to 
morning glow ! Let them be filled with the brightness 
of all that shines, blue sea, blue sky and the green plains 
of eternity! Behold, I will give to thine ears to hear 
all the rejoicing of all the millions of angels in all the 
million heavens of God !" 

And we rejoice that this society, which held their wak- 
ing thought, prospers in this fair land — we rejoice that 
there should be such an institution as the Knights of 
Columbus, which binds its members in a magic chain 
when living and considers tliem links even after death ! 

It realizes that in these fleeting days men need the 
help, the strength, the sympathy and the aid of others ; 
it realizes how potent is the power that flows from many 
united in a comir.on cause — it realizes the value of the 
friendly clasp, the cheering smile and the welcome 
words of one who has passed through the same ordeal, 
been tried by the same fire and camped out under the 
same lonely stars ! It rejoices in that fraternity which 
is illumined and made glorious with the light of Holy 
Faith, for clinging to that, who can wander or go 
astray ? 

It mourns not for its dead, like Rachel, refusing to be 



ADDRESSES 1 53 

comforted ; it knows there will be a reunion — it weeps 
only for him, the disconsolate, 

"Who never sees 
The stars shine through the cypress trees, 
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away 
Nor looks to see the wakening day 
Across the echoing marbles play !" 

It has a deathless hope, and Hope is the sweetest 
word in the language ; it has borne more happiness into 
human hearts than anything else under the stars ; it is 
more than the other virtues ; without it faith could not 
exist and charity would be chilled with the frost of 
doubt and despair ! 

It stands by the cradle and whispers to the mother 
in words of gold, it leads the youth through the green 
lanes in the gardens of life — it makes of the maiden's 
heart a rose-leafed bower of light and love and dreams 
of other days ! With it the pale poet in his garret may 
scale the heights of starry song — the busy-browed in- 
ventor sees from out his grimy den the whirr of wheels 
that throb to life touched by his subtle hand — far off in 
ferny fields or where the crowded cities chant their 
hymns of toil it is alone the inspiration and the strength 
of men — it comes to the poor prisoner in his dungeon 
cell, and lo, the bars are broken and from his face the 
prison pallor flees — on wave-washed decks the seamen 
see afar, the sacred light that shines on home, and hear 
above the storm the vesper bell that calls to prayer! It 
was the one jewel that God permitted the exiles to take 
from Paradise — it made of Calvary's cross the gateway 
to the stars, and from the tomb where Mary watched 
and wept, Hope was the angel with the radiant face that 
swept away her tears and showed her where the dear 
Redeemer dwelt, beyond the ivory gates of dawn ! 

"Eternal Hope ! When yonder spheres sublime 
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of time, 



1 54 ADDRESSES 

Thy joyous youth began but not to fade. 

When all the sister planets have decay'd; 

When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 

And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below, 

Thou undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile. 

And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile." 



0nt ®xhtt 



(Response to a toast at an anniversary banquet of Hope 
Council No. 483, K. of C, of Jersey City.) 



I am greatly pleased to join with the brothers of 
Hope Council at their convivial banquet board and to 
meet the goodly citizens of Jersey City. It is indeed a 
pleasure to come to such a substantial building a> this, 
for when one realizes that the Columbian Club lost $15,- 
000 in one night and still survives, we must admit its 
strength and stability and the lasting character of its 
members. And Jersey City is famous in all ways, Hud- 
son County perhaps in a greater degree, and even the 
New Yorker who prides himself on his aristocratic su- 
periority, before he enters its portals sacred to the 
Golden Calf and golden graft, he must be purged and 
chastened by passing through Jersey City or Hoboken. 

It is very much unlike that church of which its liberal 
pastor boasted, "that it had no politics and no reli- 
gion," for we are conscious of the religious fervor of its 
residents, and for politics, this is a university in which 
the diplomas could not be made of sheepskin, as they 
woula be sadly lacking in the characteristics of the Hud- 
son County politician ! 

But I am from the country and know little about 
these matters. I live among the juicy Oranges, where 
everyone is virtuous, free and unfettered —there aie no 
skins around our Oranges ; everyone is as honest as the 
day is long, but I will not speak about the nights. 



ADDRESSES 155 

But T desire to say a few words for our Order ; the 
subject is indeed a comprehensive one, for to speak of 
it is to speak of the myriad knights who are enrolled 
among its councils. Their number is increasing day by 
day and the little beam of light which first flickered in 
the "land of steady habits" has now become as the glori- 
ous sunshine, irradiating the country, touching witl; 
its golden hues even the snowy peaks of the Sierras, and 
mingling its anthems with the mocking birds in the 
sweet magnolia groves of the sunny South. Here in 
our own State of New Jersey we have seen its ranks 
increase from one lone Jersey City Council, with its 
handful of devoted adherents, until now they stretch 
across the State to the number of forty-six, and other 
towns are knocking at the gate for admission. 

What is the charm that binds them together? What 
the secret spell that encompasses these councils? What 
the golden fetters, torged in the white heat of a Pythian 
friendship that makes us brothers, even though the 
tie of consanguinity be lacking? You and I, my friends, 
who have sat at the feet of those eloquent expounders 
of the beauty, the dignity, the glory of brotherly love — 
you and I who have felt our bosoms expand and our 
pulses thrill with the rhythmic heartbeats of true fra- 
ternity — you and I know that only in the comrade- 
ship of kindred souls, united for a common good, is there 
aught of happiness, can best answer that question. 

The Knights of Columbus have prospered because 
only good can prosper ! True it is that evil things and 
influences may arise, and spread their polluting pres- 
ences for a time — "God moves in a mysterious way His 
wonders to perform," but in the mighty march of ages 
only that institution which has within its heart of 
hearts the spirit of eternal virtue, can eternally survive. 

We do not claim too much when we claim this for 
the Knights of Columbus. I sometimes think that our 
ideals are too high — that our poor, frail spirits have 
too strong an affection for the sweetness and the hon- 
eyed things of earth, that only a Sir Galahad, whose 



156 ADDRESSES 

"strength was as the strength of ten, because his heart 
was pure," might fitly bear the name of knight. 

And yet what has ever been accompHshed in this 
world save by those who dared to lift their eyes and 
reach their hands whither their heart's desires had 
leaped — who dared, like our great patron, to challenge 
fate, and in that challenge tear the mask from the face 
of an unseen, unknown, undreamed world? 

Do you remember that epic interlude of the Alpine 
village, through which passed 

"A youth who bore mid snow and ice 
A banner, with a strange device," 

and that device "Excelsior," go up higher? He was 
beset with the temptations of youth, the blandishments 
of beauty, yet pressed onward! He was cautioned by 
the wise, importuned by those who held him near and 
dear, to pause, yet with that one purpose full in view, he 
pressed onvx^ard and upward ! What to him was the 
dread of dangers seen or unseen ? What to him was the 
warning voice that cried 

"Beware the pine tree's withered branch, 
Beware the awful avalanche ! 
A voice replied far up the height. 
It was the peasant's last good night, 
'Excelsior !' " 

And it is related that when the night had passed and 
the monks came forth from their monastery walls at 
break of day, they found him, as many a hero has been 
found, who gave his all for a cause, an ideal ! 

"There in the twilight, cold and gray, 
Lifeless, yet beautiful, he lay, 
But from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell like a falling star — 
'Excelsior!' " 

The youth perished, but the cause, the voice rose up- 
ward and upward and "star-like mingled with the stars," 



ADDRESSES I 57 

his soul went marching on, and that inspiring voice 
echoed and re-echoed from the shores of time to the 
shores of eternity to be a clarion call and an inspira- 
tion for those who follow after ! 

So courage and fidelity should be our guiding stars ; 
they should lead us to increase our membership with 
worth} men, to multiply our councils, so that our 
brothers might touch hand to hand and form a magni- 
ficent chain across our continent-covering country. 

They should inspire us with new zeal to work in the 
vineyard — to actively exercise those cardinal virtues on 
which our order is founded, to propagate that Faith 
which is our Faith, and in these days of doubt, disas- 
ter and despair, when so many souls are unfortified by 
the ministry of God"s religion, and are dead to the 
knowledge of that "divinity which shapes our ends,"' 
this Order should be as a seven-hued arch of hope to 
lead them to a better and a holier life ! 

As in the days of the prophets, the Hebrew law- 
giver in his prison cell opened up his casement win- 
dow when he prayed, so that he might look toward the 
eternal city of Jerusalem, which contained the temple 
of the Living God, so in these days, in this lantk of civil 
and religious liberty, let us uprear a temple to which 
the hearts of every man may turn, and in which they 
may seek and find that true fraternity, that Christian 
Catholic charity, replete with the subtle alchemy that 
transmutes our troubles into the happiness that comes 
from purity of heart and a more perfect life ! 

A great and glorious future lies before this Order ; 
upon it and upon the Catholic Church, the conservator 
of law and order, of righteous government and na- 
tional morality, the destinies of this nation, its empire 
and its eminence depend. We are not inspired bv the 
pessimistic spirit that is so common to-day, among those 
who have lost their faith in things eternal and cannot 
see behind the stars. 

We have a deathless hope not only in our sublime 
faith, but in American institutions, and the name of your 



1 58 ADDRESSES 

council SO sweetly symbolizes that spirit, that I rejoice 
that you have chosen such an appellation. For hope 
is the sweetest word in the language ; it has borne 
more happiness into the human heart than anything 
under the skies ; it stands by the cradle and whispers 
to the mother in words of gold ; it leads the youth 
through the green lanes in the gardens of life ; it makes 
of the maiden's heart a rose-leafed bower of light and 
love and dreams of other days. With it the pale poet 
in his garret may scale the heights of starry song; the 
busy-browed inventor sees from out his grimy den the 
whirr of wheels that throb to life touched by his subtle 
hand. Far off in ferny fields or where the crowded 
cities chant their hymns of toil it is alone the inspiration 
and the strength of men — it comes to the poor prisoner 
in his dungeon cell, and lo, the bars are broken and 
from his face the prison pallor fiees. On wave-washed 
decks the seamen see afar the sacred light that shines 
on home, and hear above the storm the vesper bell that 
calls to prayer. It was the one jewel that God per- 
mitted the angels to take from Paradise ; it made of 
Calvary's cross the gateway to the stars, and from the 
tomb where Mary watched and wept, Hope was the 
angel with the radiant face that swept away her tears 
and showed her where the dear Redeemer dwelt, be- 
yond the ivory gates of dawn. 

This is the spirit with which we should greet the New 
Year, and I pray that the hopes and desires and aspira- 
tions and dreams of Hope Council will be crystallized 
into tangible realities before the year ends, and you shall 
all feel the happiness that comes to one whose laudable 
desires are realized. 



ADDRESSES I 59 



0viv Country 



Our Country; it is a theme on which a statesman 
could enthuse, a poet draw inspiration from the skies, 
an orator glorify with the utterance of an eloquent 
tongue, and though I may not claim kinship with any 
of these, yet like Brutus, will ask you to hear me for 
my cause. 

Wherever men gather in their wiser intelligence — 
men who do not herd with narrow foreheads, but bear 
upon their brows the grace of sovereignty, for in this 
land every man is sovereign, the magic name of country 
is uppermost in every heart and only next to its 
country's Creator. We teach the children to reverence 
that name, we instill into the minds of youth the lessons 
drawn from its history, we instruct them in the prin- 
ciples on which it is founded, we inculcate in them a re- 
spect for its laws, so that when the sun of manhood 
dawns, they will feel the responsibility that devolves 
upon them and give their unqualified support to its in- 
stitutions. And in an assemblage composed of Catholic 
gentlemen, members of that Church which first gave 
religious Hberty a home, its only home in this wide 
world, that Church which is universally recognized as 
being the greatest conservator of public law, righteous 
government and national morality, in an order named 
after the great Commander whose eyes first brightened 
at the sight of these shores, at a time when America 
stands pre-eminent among the nations of the earth for 
its illustrious ideals, its unselfish endeavors in the cause 
of humanity, and its triumphs of diplomacy, what more 
fitting that some one should respond to the toast, 
"Our Country?" 

And what does it mean to us? Every heart thrilled 
a few years ago when the powers of darkness found a 
tool base enough to strike at its revered head, of 
whom it might be said as of Duncan : "He hath borne 



t6o addresses 

his faculties so meek, hath been so clear in his high 
office, that angels will plead trumpet-tongued against 
the deep damnation of his taking ofif." Not alone the 
deed which laid the President low that we abhorred, 
but to strike at the representative of that society which 
protects us in our property, defends us from disorders 
without and within, and preserves for us those essential 
prerogatives to which we are entitled by the laws of 
nature and of nature's God. 

Inheritors of these inestimable rights wrung from 
tyrant hands in the times that tried men's souls, we are 
apt in these luxurious days to forget the dark and rug- 
ged paths through which our forbears struggled to the 
light. Then there was no spot on earth which free- 
dom could call her own ; to-day the drum beat of 
Democracy is heard around the world and what states- 
men and sages called an experiment has ripened into 
an institution as invincible as the granite of its monu- 
mental hills. Then religious liberty was a thing un- 
known, and in the land of Columbus, Calvert and Mar- 
quette, the Catholic was a man proscribed and the 
priest had a price set upon his head. To-day even in 
our civil life, the most respected, influential and inspir- 
ing body of men is the chivalrous, courageous, cul- 
tured clergy of the old, undying Church. The aristo- 
crat and the man of culture assumed to rule ; to-day the 
ballot of the humblest laborer weighs as much in the 
summing up, for the common man has proved himself 
to be the peer of those born in the purple, in incentive, 
in comprehension and in action, and in all the elements 
that g-o to the upbuilding of a perfect State such as the 
patriots desired and eventually saw arise. 

As one who achieves greatness, whether in peace or 
war, must tread the bitter paths of pain, so must a na- 
tion suffer that she may enjoy the seats of the mighty. 
Not without tears of blood was the victory wrought, 
and after the days of doubt and despair were at an end 
and England's meteor flag banished from our soil, the 
leaders of that forlorn hope trembled lest they had won 



ADDRESSES l6l 

more than they could maintain. They had fought for 
hfe, hberty and happiness, those inalienable rights, older 
than human institutions, having their foundations 
in the principles of eternal justice which are 
anterior to States, and, in the language of the 
Declaration, "to secure those rights," not to obtain 
them, for they are divinely granted — governments 
can only be instituted with the consent of the governed. 
With no model before them (for popular will had never 
found expression in a constitutional convention), 
presided over by Washington, who there earned 
the title, "first in peace as well as war," they formulated 
a constitution built upon eternal truths, but even then 
the wiser of the fathers saw the necessity of further 
guarding the people's rights, and at the instance of 
Jefferson, liberty of conscience and freedom of speech 
were incorporated into the constitution by the first 
amendment. Men saw the light of her watchfires and 
hastened to her welcome shores ; her flag became the 
orifiame of justice, for "the stars upon it were to the 
pining nations like the morning stars of God, and the 
stripes upon it were the beams of morning light." No 
wonder that she prospered. Consider the extent of 
her possessions, the wealth of her products, the di- 
versity of her climates, the magnitude of her resources, 
the growth of her dominions. Only the Atlantic sea- 
board felt the touch of her youthful feet, but westward 
the course of empire took its way, to be halted only 
by the waves of the Pacific, where the city of St. Francis 
now arises from the ashes of her desolation and gazes 
proudly through the Golden Gate to the great seas be-^ 
yond. And even there she has not halted ; far over seas 
she has worked her way in the East, and her morning- 
gun greets the sunrise of the tropics. 

Men love their native land, for who does not love the 
roof that shelters him, the skies that bend above the 
paths and meadows that knew his youthful feet ? Here 
are the ashes of his fathers and his dear ones, and here 
shall he lay down his burden when the vital spark of 



1 62 ADDRESSES 

heavenly flame is quenched. It is a holy love, a heaven- 
born affection, a spirit that inspires us with the love of 
humanity, the brotherhood of man ! 

It is the foe of selfishness, for the patriot puts his 
own welfare aside when the welfare of the country is at 
stake. It is the apostle of progress for men with this 
spirit glory in their country's prosperity. It is the pro- 
tector of the home, the safeguard of morality, the in- 
carnation of that spirit of self sacrifice which makes 
fragrant the golden rule. 

The love of country ; it was this that lent living fire 
to the lips of Henry, for this that Carroll laid down his 
millions at her feet. This made the snows of Valley 
Forge endurable, and dreary marches through swamp 
and fen and forest became at its thought, bordered with 
the roses of plenty. This it was that led the hardy 
pioneers over the prairies and the parching plains, up 
the narrow gorges and across the snows that glitter for 
all time on the peaks of the Sierras, to the land where 
rolls the Oregon, or where the Colorado leaps south- 
ward through the grand canyon the Almighty cleft in 
the heart of the hills in the dim eons, centuries ago. This 
was the spirit that filled the heart of the boy in blue ; 
in the long watches of the night his heart went back to 
his boyhood's home — he saw the gray-haired mother, 
the patient, tired wife, the prattling child lisping its ab- 
sent father's name ; or perhaps to the younger men there 
came the vision of a fair face, framed in the gold of a 
true man's love, that came between him and the stars. 
This was the light that shed its radiance on the form 
of the gallant Admiral who stood on the bridge of the 
Brooklyn while all around him swept the shattering, 
shrieking shells of dying Spain, when out of the night 
smoke and flame and carnage rushed the Oregon in 
that pursuit of death which only ended when the wan 
seas rolled over the Spanish fleet and her imperial flag 
fell on the continent forever. 

Wealth and prosperity are noble, but human liberty 
is magnificent ; we have them all ; let us cherish that 



ADDRESSES 1 63 

liberty, for from it all our blessings flow. We have 
passed the experimental stage ; secure in the knowledge 
of our stability, we can look abroad, instructing the na- 
tions of the earth in the gentle arts of peace, which 
have contributed so much to our renown, which have 
but a year ago shed their blessings on the Orient, which 
even now are exercising their sway upon the turbulent 
elements in choleric Cuba. Our country — harbinger of 
good cheer to the oppressed of all nations, the promised 
land where the industrious, the law-abiding, the sober, 
may work out their destiny and give it the tribute of 
their praise. 

Still may it sit, enthroned among the worlds, the in- 
spired mother of sister states, of sunlit aisles and moun- 
tain wastes which hide within their granite breasts the 
ruddy veins of gold, or that mightier metal which has 
dowered your city with the wealth of a thousand kings 
and set the iron crown of commercial sovereignty upon 
the blue hilltops of the Keystone State. 

In the dim dusk of marching years we may discern 
her course ; mflexible and firm for the right, her deeds 
shall have the vastness of her plains, the high-born 
beauty of her virgin hills. Her people shall have an 
abiding faith in her, and they shall cling to her as the 
embodiment of all the excellencies of all the ages, for to 
their eyes she shall have not alone the glory that was 
Greece and the grandeur that was Rome, but the faith 
that was France, the industry; that was Germany, the 
intellect that was Scotland, the enterprise that was Eng- 
land, the virtre and purity and patriotism that was 
Ireland, to make that shining and unsurpassable jewel 
among nations, America, Our Country! 




164 ADDRESSES 



ilemorial abbresfsf 

(Delivered at Knights of Columbus Memorial Meeting, 
Newark, January I, 1903.) 



You have gathered here to-day with a sacred and holy 
purpose in view ; it is with no feeling of worldly gain, of 
future honors or of benefits to be encompassed that 
the true knights assemble on occasions such as these. 
Those we are about to honor are beyond our ken — no 
words of adulation may reach them, no tears may 
awaken a responsive echo in their still, cold hearts ; 
therefore what we say is to be measured by no common 
rule, whereas between man and man, truth must be 
tempered. Human ears cannot bear the eternal veri- 
ties and considerate tongues must soften, gild and 
beautify their phrases lest our frail spirits should take 
ofTense. 

I speak not of those who at such a time would from 
the emptiness of their hearts pour forth expressions of 
extravagant praise for the dead, that they themselves 
might be considered as possessing more of that divine 
virtue which can throw a cloak over the sins and the 
omissions and the resentments of others ; for them there 
is a day of reckoning, for are we not told that every idle 
word will be held against us when the book of life is 
completed? For if falsehood and flattery may wrong 
the living who are here to answer to the world and give 
denial, what wrong will it not do the dead who have 
no voice left to plead for them? Therefore, in plain 
words let me bring to your minds some of the lessons 
which may be drawn from the contemplation of that 
eternal truth, that all who live must die, passing 
through nature to eternity. 

It is with a twofold object we hold these services — 
comfort and spiritual strength for the living — justice 
and reverence for the dead. If only the dead were to 



ADDRESSES 165 

be considered we might indeed refrain from awakening 
memories to grieve some sensitive soul, but as upon 
memorial days we lay our laurels upon their graves, sO 
may we to-day lay the roses of remembrance upon their 
virtues in vocal testimony of the courage, the fortitude, 
the wisdom and the humility of the departed ones, and 
say to their associates, "See what the world says of the 
blessed who die in the Lord !" 

It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the 
dead. Such are the words of the church adopted into 
our ritual ; we as humble followers of that Divine 
Teacher cannot do better than to use the expressions 
which her centuries of enlightenment and inspiration 
have made luminous for mankind. She sets a day apart 
in her calendar in which all souls are commemorated, 
and though human hearts may forget them, it is a 
consoling thought that on that day the wise and re- 
verent and all-kind Mother gives to them the unsolicited 
tribute of her prayers. We may therefore learn from 
this the necessity of selecting one day among the 
children of the year in which to give a thought to the 
dear ones who are gone, mingling our prayers in mute 
intercession for the eternal happiness of our absent 
brothers. But our duty ends not here, for from the ashes 
of the dead we may again re-create the joys, the hopes, 
the glories of the days that are no more to strengthen 
those of us who are left behind and make us the more 
willing to bear the burdens placed upon us here, that 
the earth may be made a better, brighter, nobler and 
pleasanter place on which to dwell, and that we may 
receive the reward of that blessing hereafter. 

Few of us realize the debt we owe to those who have 
passed away ; few of us realize the duty we owe to those 
who come after us ; that ours is but a temporary habita- 
tion here, that this is but the prologue to the coming 
event, that not here but in other lands we build our 
stately mansions with the comforting assurance, if we 
have done our work well, that our residence there is 
not for a dav but forever. 



1 66 ADDRESSES 

We are but laborers gathering up the tangled threads 
left by those who preceded us, weaving them into new 
fabrics and leaving for posterity the ending of so much 
of our work. We are thoughtless creatures, children 
of the morning's dawn and of the sunlight, apparently 
oblivious of an approaching night, a night of darkness 
and of death. Yet it is written on every atom of nature, 
e\cry blade of grass, every leaf in the forest, every sand 
on the shore, and on the multitudinous waves of the 
sea, that our hours are numbered and that the same 
Power tliat gave us form and being has decreed that the 
time shall come when that form shall not be. The stars 
look upon the foundations of what magnificent struc- 
tures — and the same pitiless stars will look upon their 
summits when the hands that laid their bases are folded 
b' ncalh them. Who, if he only thought, would care to 
lay up these heaps of dust that fill our fancies here 
when the hand of another shall scatter and sweep them 
aside? Who, if he only thought, wou.ld seek out those 
precious jewels from the earth, when the only jewels 
that shine above are those fair crystals that the benefi- 
cent mind creates when it frames a good deed and the 
Recording Angel inshrincs it in a supernal setting ?" 

These truths the ages speak with clamorous tongues, 
the depths of ocean and the mountain peaks point their 
morals so that all may read, the fields of peace and the 
plains where the red badge of courage flames brightly 
on the breasts of the warlike have each their signifi- 
cance, and yet there needs be the feeble lips of men to 
remind their brothers of the dawnless night that shall 
fall upon them all, with monotonous reiteration, one by 
one. 

Then shall we say that death is terrible, that there is 
no remedy in the hands of men to mitigate its wrath 
or rob it of its terrors? ft has no terrors for the faith- 
ful soul, for we are taught by that faith that cannot 
plead but for righteousness and truth that Death has 
no victory, the Grave no sting. We are taught that it is 
but the awakening of the imprisoned spirit, the unfold- 



ADDRESSES 167 

ing- of the rose, the casting away of the chains that 
shackled us to this dark, terrestrial existence, the glow 
of morning coming after the twiHght of travail and 
despair. That the souls fortified by grace feel indeed 
that the prison cells are opened and that the lamp which 
the Redeemer of mankind lit long ago on Calvary's 
crest will shine upon them and upon their spirits for- 
ever. 

Nature we know is pitiless in her punishments and 
impartial in her rewards ; the great sun which gleams 
upon the green meadows and the sparkling streams, 
leaping and dancing at the totich of her magic light, also 
penetrates to the darkest spots, the deepest caverns, and 
the snows of the loftiest mountain peaks ; though we 
may be peasant or princely born, we live one common 
life, we meet one common fate and each joins the train 
that began with Adam and which will end when the 
last man will "the darkling universe defy to quench his 
immortality or shake his trust in God." 

And the voice of Nature, of reason and of revelation 
says : "You imperial monarch, upon whose lands the orb 
of days sets not, you who hold in your hands the des- 
tinies of millions, yet one day shall the summons come 
to you and you shall step down from your throne and 
stand v/ith the beggar who waited at your gate the 
judgment of that eternal Throne !" 

You pale student, who feel that your geni is is not 
appreciated, your talents despised, while on the charla- 
tan whom hoarse-voiced pretension decks in borrowed 
robes, the adulation of ages is wasted, yet you will one 
day meet on the same plane, for there the All-seeing eye 
will look into your hearts, and whether ye be crowned 
with laurel or with rue, it will fare with you the same. 
You toiler in the mills, with the pinched face and the 
weary hands, you poor mortal who seem shut out from 
the sunshine of existence and can only press your pallid 
face against the windows of life, there will come a day 
when the crowns of earth shall lay their heads beside 
your own in the presence of the greatest King of all. 



l68 .ADDRESSES 

Yet when we come to contemplate our broken ranks, 
when we see the vacant chairs at every fireside, when 
we see the dead cities whose white stones mark the 
resting place of those who once were and now are not, 
what wonder if we pause at the idea of the pitiless spirit 
whose ghostly touch awaits us all? And the uncertainty 
of it is perhaps most appalling ; we know not what a day 
may bring forth — the morning sunlight may fall upon 
the proud young brow, while eventide sees it mute and 
cold, unconscious of all dawns save the breath of that 
eternal morning. We hear of the gallant hosts who 
march forth to battle and in fancy follow them through 
the devious ways which lead to death, yet life's battle- 
fields are not confined to scenes of carnage, for day by 
day that impalpable presence hangs about us, and in 
the hour of our greatest triumph its inflexible finger 
may be laid upon our hearts. 

The mother stands by the window and waves adieu 
to the parting son — he goes with a light heart, a song 
upon his lips, he tosses back a kiss as he goes, and she, 
poor, fond old heart, thinks that it is but the prelude 
of the home-coming. Alas, the night will come, but he 
Cometh not, nor on the morrow nor on the next day, 
for a greater summons came, and he with the song upon 
his lips stood in the presence of the King of kings, for 
he had passed the ivory gates of sleep and death that 
open outward, and no one has ever seen and told what 
lies beyond. Yet it may be that this man had in his life, 
by means of the creative intelligence God had given 
him, devised some instrument to lighten human toil, 
some remedy to soften human woe ; perhaps his mind 
had framed some words, exultant with the breath of 
genius which nerved the souls of -men and in hours of 
disaster and despair was a clarion call to lead them on 
to more felicitous forms of freedom. Some sewing girl 
in her attic room, putting her wasted heart into the 
fabrics of fashion may have felt a keener joy at the 
thought, some mother may have roused her slumbering 
son to like ambition with the story of his life, some 



ADDRESSES I 69 

shepherd may have brought a wandering soul from the 
barren mountains of desolation to the fold of innocence 
and peace with the pictured memory of his fate and 
faith. Shall we then say that Death robbed us of the 
fruits — that he was met and vanquished? Not so; he 
left a name to encourage the coming millions, a heritage 
to outlast the storms of winter and of wars, a memory 
inelTt'aceable until the inaudible and noiseless foot of 
time has ceased to fall. 

It is with thoughts such as these that the' Knights of 
Columbus approach this subject, for to them there is 
another feeling which intervenes when the roll is called 
and the names remain unanswered. Brothers in life, 
banded together by the ties of fraternity, they do not 
feel that death has snapped the cord, or raised a note 
of dissonance between those hearts which mingled their 
tones in whispered words of love. We do not sigh with 
the poet, "Ah, broken is the golden bowl, tne spirit 
flown forever.'" Their names are still on the roll; we 
feel still the presence and hearken to the secret counsel 
from the lips of those grown wiser in the etherial atmos- 
phere of that celestial clime. We know that the dead 
still live in their acts, their influences, their desires, and 
from the darkness of the dreamless clay there springs a 
light which strives to lead us in the better ways they 
trod. We know that by the tomb of buried love there 
sit the angels of Hope and Compassion, one comfort- 
ing with the consoHng thought of the dead at rest, one 
sustaining and pointing far above where the losts ones 
wait, those who have only gone before. 

So my friends, if you have hearkened to my argument 
you will realize, or I have failed of my purpose, that 
we do not mourn for the dead, but for the living who 
are left to mourn. "Ours the tears, the regrets and 
fears, theirs the eternal peace." Their crown is com- 
pleted, let us pray not alone for them, but that we may 
have the grace to secure a few more leaves, a few more 
blossoms, a few more fruits which will enable us to 
finish ours while yet the few moments of sunlight re- 



1 70 ADDKESSES 

main for us, to work and pray, for look you it is near 
sunset for some of us and the gates will soon be closed. 

As individual Catholics this is our duty ; as members 
of this organization we also have our duty, for we be- 
lieve that anyone who affiliates himself with it, who ab- 
sorbs its teachings into his spirit will be a better man 
for that. We believe that any organization which tends 
to take the selfishness and the selfish pride out of man, 
which bids him to love, protect and respect the living, to 
honor and revere the memory of the dead is a divinely 
appointed institution. We believe in this organization 
because it is a patriotic one, and patriotism is unselfish- 
ness, for the true patriot is one who gives his life, if 
need be, that all his countrymen may be made the better 
for ii. We believe that all power is ordained of God, 
and that a government which insures the stability of so- 
ciety and which protects the individual in the security 
of his life, the liberty of his conscience and the enjoy- 
m.ent of that property which his life work has enabled 
him to amass, is a part of God's divinely appointed plan, 
and this org-anization stands for that government, and 
therefore for His reign on earth ; for the heavens and all 
its works are of Gpd, but the earth He designed for the 
children of men. 

We Catholics have paramount claims in this land of 
ours, we feel that the hand of God carved this continent 
out of the blackness of the waters to be a teriiple where 
the righteousness of Republicanism^ sliould find ex- 
pression, and which would hold aloft to the decaying 
nations of the old world the lamp of progress, of pros- 
perity, of hope. We believe that our faith in that flag is 
founded on justice and reason, that it stands for right- 
eousness in all things, for liberty is righteousness, 
righteousness is religion and religion is the divinity im- 
planted in our hearts, which impels us to deal justly 
with all men. 

We know that it has done more for religious liberty 
than any other national emblem and we feel for it as 
a mother for her son, for it was due to the church which 



ADDRESSES I7I 

is our church, the faith which is our faith, the courage 
that is our courage, the hero who is our hero and our 
patron that it exists as the oriflame of our land; 
for his faith found the land that fashioned it and 
set the stars of its glory in the blue skies of 
its hope. We love it for what it predicates 
and we place it next to the Cross, the emblem of 
our salvation, for it enables us to hold aloft that emblem 
and win the hearts of the multitude with the unimagin- 
able glories to which the cross points, as every tree, 
every flower, every blade of grass points to the stars. 

We love our brotliers who live under its light, and 
dying we forget them not, for they were worthy, they 
were just, they were faithful. 

Their journey is ended, their warfare over, their work 
done, their lips still and silent, they have left behind 
them a name and their illustrious achievements ; they 
have taken with them only the records of their good 
deeds, which in truth are the only hostages which they 
can present to that eternal court. 

May their sins be writ in water, their virtues "reg- 
jstered where every day we turn the leaf to read them." 

May perpetual light shine upon them and their abode 
be the abode of peace, of joy celestial, of bliss supreme, 
of that grandeur of which it is said eye hath not seen, 
ear hath not heard, nor can the imagination of man con- 
ceive the beauty <ind the mightiness thereof. 

And may the souls of all the faithful departed, 
through the mercy of God, rest in peace ! 




1/2 



ADDRESSES 



Wf^t Jrigf) American 

(A St. Patrick's Day Address.) 



Under the shadows of St. Paul's, a monument of a 
buried century in tiie midst of the strife and turmoil of 
the busiest spot in the busiest city in the world, there 
He the ashes of two men ; each of them added glory and 
lustre to American achievements ; each of them had felt 
the sting and sorrow of the same misrule ; each of them 
loved America with a kinsman's love, and each of them 
was Irish. 

Richard Montgomery, Thomas Addis Emmet — what 
a space they filled in the horizon of their time ; one on 
the battlefield, one on the no less noble plains of peace ; 
one whose sword carved his name on the enduring ada- 
mant of ages, one, of that illustrious family whose 
noblest son made the scaffold radiant with the splendor 
of his death ; alas, his epitaph is still unwritten save 
in the hearts of his countrymen. And from th^ day 
when Montgomery fell fighting on the walls of Quebec, 
there has not a battle been fought, not a siege main- 
tained, not an achievement planned, not an industrial 
marvel accomplished, not a territory explored, noi- a 
star added to the flag, but that the sons of Ireland 
shared its glory or gave their lives that there might be 
glory for some to share. 

Yea, before the colonies had dreamed of independence, 
the stalwart sons of Erin who had drawn liberty into 
their souls with the clear ether of her emerald skies and 
had rather live in exile from their homes and kindred 
than exist by the sufferance of a tyrant's hand, these 
men had blazed a pathway into the mists of the primeval 
forests and planted the roses of the old world in the 
gardens of the new. 

Wherever Irish blood beats, there throbs a heart that 
loves liberty, and why not? "Born in a land where 



ADDRESSES 



173 



liberty had hung crucified for centuries ; dying perpetu- 
ally, yet never dead, wasting forever, yet enduring 
still." Picture to yourself that fair isle, inhabited by a 
kingiy race, possessing art and culture, holding up the 
golden lamp of knowledge above the towers of watch 
and war when Europe was overrun with barbarous 
hordes ; where the wisdom of its scholars, the valor of 
its men, the virtues of its women were the inspiration 
and the theme of its minstrel bards whose songs, re- 
dolent with the flame and the fragrance of gifts divine, 
have borne the tales of chivalry through the chanting 
centuries. But the hand of the invader fell heavily upon 
her and in the fetters forged through years of war, 
rapine and intolerance, her culture and her charms of 
scholarship were swept away. The ravens nested in her 
cloistered halls where once the doves of contentment 
dwelt. The Isle of Saints became an Isle of Sorrows 
with not a vestige of its ancient glory, only its faith iti 
things eternal, only its love of liberty which that faitn 
pronounced the inheritance of mankind, the indestruc- 
tible jewel in the coronet placed upon the brow of Man 
when the Creator breathed upon the dust and made it 
live. 

Then began that hegira unparalleled in the history of 
nations ; not by the Liftey or the Shannon shall you seek 
their monuments, but far away under sterner skies their 
genius has set "the stars of glory on the glowing brow 
of ambition." Irish valor, intellect and enterprise has 
left its mark on every country on the continent, its blood 
has trailed along the paths of victory on every battle- 
field from Fontenoy to Waterloo. So when they saw 
under the sunset skies the shadowy outlines of that vir- 
gin land, sleeping in all its beauty, like the princess in 
the fairy tale until some hero's lips should wake it with 
a kiss, it was then that Ireland turned its eager eyes 
across the seas and brought to it the vigor, the strength, 
the bouyancy of its young heart. 

Search the records and you will find their 
names, delve into the yellow pages of its his- 



174 ADDRESSES 

tory and you will find their deeds ; from the day when 
the Irish Dongan gave to the knickerbockers the free- 
dom to worship God as their consciences dictated, from 
the day the Concord farmers fired the shot "heard 
round the world,"' there is not a page but will bear wit- 
ness to the deeds of the Irish-American. 

We need not revert alone to those whose names are 
on every schoolboy's lips — the defiant Henry, the vic- 
torious Barry, the intrepid Sullivan, the sacrificing 
Stark, the Nestorian Carrol, and all those whose feet 
were set upon the mountain tops and whose faces were 
illumined by the skies^ of victory so that their light re- 
fulgent shines forever. Look down into the shadowy 
valleys of the times upon the humbler but no less 
worthy names, realize that one-half of that colonial 
force was of Irish blood, think of the nieu like young 
Jeremiah O'Brien, whose name posterity has forgotten, 
yet he won the first naval victory of the Revolution ; 
go into the graveyards of the past and read the names 
hidden under forgetful mosses, and you will realize 
that every battle by flood or field, every act in congress 
or assembly, every pledge of assistance in every city 
or hamlet to the support of that patriotic host, num- 
bered Irishmen among its supporters. 

They knew by the tear-stained story of their own land 
what foreign rule predicated and the dragon's teeth 
sowed in the green sod, sprang up, a race of warriors 
in the land across the waters. '98 but added to the list, 
and '48 was but a repetition when again the brave and 
young and gallant and true-hearted of that race paid 
the penalty of their patriotism on the scaffold or found 
refuge on our shores to lay their talents at our feet. 
When England sent Thomas Francis Meagher into exile, 
relenting from the savage fate she designed for him 
after his defiant speech from the dock at Clonmel, she 
threw away "a pearl richer than all her tribe." In all 
that long line of illustrious men who wore the blue, who 
more fitly typified the spirit of Americanism than this 
hero of Bull Run, of Chancellorsville, of Antietam, this 



ADDRESSES 



175 



intrepid leader of the Irish Brigade which bore side by 
side in the van of battle the stars of America, the 
shamrock of immortal Erin. 

Sheridan and Shields, Mulligan and McMahon, 
Kearny and Corcoran could not fail to win where e'er 
they went, for it was the pent up spirit restrained by 
centuries of oppression which burst forth with volcanic 
energy and spread desolation on the foe. 

We speak of soldiers because it is of fighting race we 
speak ; but "while Peace shall still her wheaten garlands 
wear," it will bear testimony to the fame of greater 
men who gave their intellect where others gave their 
blood. Think of Thomas Devin Riley, of Richard O'Gor- 
man, of John Boyle O Fveilly among the expatriated. 
Gaze upon his superb bronze at the inland gateway of 
New England's most cultured city and learn in what 
estimation they hold the memory of that poet, hberator, 
patriot ; follow him on the deck of that prison ship, see 
him leap into the waves in the Southern seas to be 
borne from thence into this free air, and dying is 
honored with the Adams, the Emersons, the Haw- 
thornes, in the temple of their mightiness. 

It was men like these who moulded the base and 
crowned the summit of our imperial country ; what 
might they have done if relentless hate had not inter- 
posed, to re-create the glory of their own country and 
make of it a shrine of art, of magnificence, of culture 
as in the days of old? For among all peoples, none love 
their land so well as those of Irish birth ; it is as if tne 
blows they received for its sake had beaten its affec- 
tions into their very souls. It is they who flood the mails 
with gold when that "season comes wherein our 
Saviour's birth is celebrated ;" it is they who look with 
longing eyes for the letter that bears the shamrock 
when the ides of March approach. They have kept un- 
scathed within their hearts the memory of that land, 
and how full of romance it is — peopled with the crea- 
tures of their imagination, where every forest has its 
fairy, every. fountain its nymph, every hillside and ver- 



176 ADDRESSES 

nal dale its beneficent spirit. No skies have the same 
bkie, no flowers the same fragrance, no waters the same 
crystalHne purity, no grass as rich as soft a green. 

Generous beyond ah others, their very misfortunes are 
due to their virtues rather than their vices. Their fi- 
dehty to their principles has cost them many a comfort, 
but their fealty has made them many a friend. The 
twilight of Ireland was the morning star of America; 
what she has lost we have gained. Into the rugged con- 
sistencies of our sturdier races she has woven the 
gentler graces of her disposition, the dreamy, poetic, 
queenly qualities which soften our sterner mould as 
the summer verdure rounds out and beautifies the 
granite ledges of our mountain peaks. She has taught 
us that the divinity in man cannot be hidden or ob- 
scured ; she has proved to the world by her exiled sons 
her capacity for self-government — they have not ruled 
nations, but made nations which, needing no rulers, 
have ruled themselves. They have taken up the plough 
and put their hands to the workman's hammer, they 
have stood behind the guns and flung the starry ban- 
ner to the bree/e, they have folded that flag and clasped 
peaceful hands when the drums of battle ceased to 
beat. 

Year by year we catch the rosy faces coming, the 
dewy freshness of Mother Earth upon their hopeful 
cheeks ; year by year the common clay enshrines the 
ashes of those whose vital fires had gone to the illumina- 
tion of their adopted land. 




ADDRESSES 1 77 



tKije StJealg of goutf) 



When we speak of ideals in this prosaic age, we bring 
up a subject that may not appeal to the minds of many, 
for it is, perhaps, true that men seek for material things 
to a greater extent than ever before in the history of 
mankind. If true, it is something to regret, for if we look 
back over the records of the race, in the nations tliat 
attained greatness and subsequently decay, like Greece 
and Rome, and Spain and France in recent days, we will 
find that the pursuit of the luxuries of life inevitably pre- 
ceded the fall of empire. The poets alone have recog- 
nized the fact that "trades' proud empire hastes to swift 
decay," but it is true to-day that when man loses sight of 
the ideals that should be foremost in the heart of every 
true and honest and God-fearing citizen, when he begins 
to grope amidst the dust and slime of things, where the 
most precious substances of earth are hidden, when he 
forgets that highborn aspiration is better than question- 
able possession, when he forgets the ideals of his youth, 
then, indeed, may we look for a decline and fall of this 
great country, even as Rome fell centuries ago. 

The ideals of youth— why do I speak of them, for has 
not age also its ideals ? Not of the same nature, the 
same charming simplicity, the same freedom from self- 
ishness. There is a sacredness, a spiritual beauty, a 
vernal freshness as of springtime, about youth, for he 
clmgs to the belief that the dewy innocence 01 tne rose 
dwells in the hearts of all men, even as Sir Galahad 
thought all hearts were pure. 

For youth inhabits a different land from age ; for 
him the rosy glow of daylight has a different tint, the 
glory of the noon kindles warmer aspirations in his 
breast, the splendor of the stars sheds a radiance on 
him that bearded age cannot appreciate or under- 
stand. 



178 ADDRESSES 

The world lies before him — ^it is for him to carve a 
name upon its placid plains or upon its magnificent 
mountains which are yet unlettered by the lyrics of his 
life. Here he will find that those who have gone before 
have left their trace, some of good to cheer him, some 
of evil to chill his heart, and he resolves that his record 
will be true and clear and resonant with strength, for he 
believes that the elements will be kind to him, and that 
fortune will strive to clasp his hand. 

As everything looks fairer in the light of dawn, so in 
the morning of life all things are suffused with the glow 
of youth and he does not dream that the lengthening 
shadows will find many things yet undone, many works 
unfinished, many hopes destroyed. For he has strength 
and persistence, and faith and hope, yes, and charity be- 
yond all others. He has not passed through the crucible 
where so many have been stripped of the golden ores 
of virtue, leaving the baseness and the dross behind — 
he has not had his hope in the eternal rectitude of men 
dashed to the earth — he has not had his belief in the 
charity of others dissipated by falsehood, by deceit and 
by ingratitude. 

We hear the aged giving advice to the young — let 
the advice be given to the old for we are too apt to 
find that it is the old man who has gone wrong and not 
the young one. And the hope of our country lies in 
our young men, for if prayers and tears have any influ- 
ence in this world, their lives should prove their effi- 
cacy. For what desires are visited upon them? Go 
into this land of homes and stand by the hearthside of 
the poorest family and what will you see? The fond 
mother, bending over the cradle, dreams of the time 
when the tender, fragile lingers will be strong, sturdy 
hands to carve their way in this bewildering world ! 
She instills the principles of faith into his young heart, 
for without religion how can there be morality? She 
guides his willing feet along the rigid paths of rigHT- 
c^usness — she teaches him what Shakespeare called 
the "king-becoming graces" as justice, verity, temper- 



ADDRESSES I 79 

ance, prudence, stableness, fortitude and bounty to help 
hiui on his path to honor ! She teaches him to love 
his counlry next to his Creator, for by serving human- 
ity bcrst he may best serve God ! Many a mother has 
pHcd her needle in the long, still w^atches of the night, 
nerved by the hopes of that boy's future ; many a 
father has felt that his bent form, liis faltering limbs, 
his knotted and broken fingers are not unwelcome, for 
by them he has earned the means of educating his boy. 
And when at last he leaves the common scnool as most 
of them end their education with that, when he stands 
up.m the threshold of manhood and looks about him, 
what does he hear, what words of welcome or of cheer 
are held out to him ? 

He will be told by those who should know better 
that graft and greed and avarice and the accomplish- 
ment cf wealth are now engagmg the attention of all 
men ; that politics are debased, that statesmanship is a 
lost art, that commercial life is corrupt, that the press 
panders to the lowest instincts, that truth is an unknown 
quaiitity and that justice between man and man is not 
to be found unless in some Utopian land unknown to the 
moderns. 

And this I desire to protest against, tliis wholesale 
and unmerited abuse is a libel on the land, a reflection 
on the memory of those who fought for it and laid its 
foundations deep in equity, a menace to the peace an(T 
])rosperity of those who shall inherit it from those wViO 
])Ossess it now. For this land of ours is grander to- 
day, this world is better than it has ever been since 
tliat dark day when our first parents felt the gates of 
paradise shut against them, and wandered forth to seek 
in banishment their bitter bread. 

Politics are not debased when in every Legislature 
in the land they are considering measures to advance 
the interests of the common people, to curb the nefari- 
ous influence of corporate wealth, when from your 
own city and county you have sent able, fearless and 
honest young men with lordly ideals to represent the 



l8o ADDRESSES 

intelligence of this sovereign State ! Statesmanship is 
not dead when but a year ago the world's first states- 
man sent the dogs of war back into their caves and 
joined the warring nations of the East in friendly con- 
cord, when to-day he is using that marvellous intellect 
in shaping legislation "to curb the great and raise tne 
low!" Corruption is not the end of commerce in a 
land where the few who have been unjust and avaric- 
ious, the few false stewards, are held up to the execra- 
tions and the scorn of honest men; the press has not 
fallen from its high estate when it espouses the cause 
of the poor and lowly, champions reform, and day after 
day beats upon the adamantine walls of chicanery and 
extravagance. 

Let us give up this perpetual criticism, this cynical 
snarling at men and methods, let us say before the 
v/orld what we must believe in our hearts, if we arc 
not blind, that there is good left in humanity, let us 
continue to assail the wrong — but not to assail all 
because some of them are wrong. 

For to-day there is a higher standard of virtue re- 
quired, and more men seek to attain that standard ; for 
to-day men are going about their multitudinous works 
of mercy as never before ; science has allied itself with 
charity and invention lends its helping hand to assist 
the weak, to cure the cripple, to banish the loathsome 
spirits of disease, to make of this world an ideal one 
and not a vale of tears. 

So to the young men I say, cling fast to the ideals 
of your youth, make them ring true, show the genera- 
tion that is passing that this is the golden age and not 
the "steal" age, as the irreverent declare. 

Upon you, the welfare of the country, its eminence 
and its empire depend. Those who have gone before, in 
toil and travail, in tears and blood, laid the foundations 
of this mighty nation which towers above you to-day, 
the watch-tower and the inspiration of the world ! Its 
fortunes are not beyond the reach of intelligence, of 
honorable, of well-directed effort ! Its honors may still 



ADDRESSES l8l 

be gained by truth and probity of purpose ! It asks 
you in return to keep your shiekls bright, to keep your 
faces turned toward the sunlight and the stars, to fix 
your eyes upon the ideals of your youth, piu-e and holy 
and exalted, and if to them you cling with steadfast- 
ness and sincerity, it will make in after years the man- 
hood of America of a character that will go down in 
history with "the glory that was Greece and the gran- 
deur that was Rome !" 



Hxv ^xt^mt Butp 



(^An address delivered at a meeting of City of Orange 
Council, Knights of Columbus.) 

The CathoHc Church in the United States of Amer- 
ica does not exist by sufferance. It presents no apolo- 
getic front to the world, for it is heralded by all stu- 
dents of social conditions, of every creed, and of no 
creed, as being an institution that moves to good, and 
in shaping the destinies of this republic it is a force to 
be reckoned with. It is no longer the church of the 
poor, for though the people who labored for it years 
ago were of this class in large measure, the habits of 
frugality, of thrift, of honesty which it teaches were 
largely instrumental in securing for them and their 
descendants a share of the material things of this world. 

From Plymouth Rock to the Golden Gate the evi- 
dences of its prosperity are visible — not a hamlet with- 
out its chapel, not a city without its lordly churches, 
and lofty cathedrals with shaft and spire and dome 
pointing to the skies proclaim that in America the 
Church of our Fathers exults and flourishes. 

Its vv^ealth we can only approximate ; church and 
chapel, college and convent, monastery and mission, 
seminary and school, all contribute to the glory and 
the grandeur of the Divine institution which was 



I 82 ADDRESSES 

founded centuries ago under the Asiatic skies, nigh to 
the very birthplace of the human race, when the won- 
drous words were uttered "Thou art Peter and on this 
rock I will build my Church, and the gates of Hell shall 
not prevail against it." 

To look back into tlie dawn of liistory requires an 
imaginative mind, when these few fishermen, faithful 
until death, went their ways proclaiming the gospel of 
the Lord. And imagination even cannot picture the 
perilous paths they pursued through flood and fire, 
dauntless and undismayed to bear the living truth to 
suffering men ! They faced not alone a pagan relig- 
ion, but pagan immorality founded on that creed, and 
above it all the rule of the pagan kings, for the teach- 
ings of the Apostles proved the right of the people to 
govern themselves, and if this were accomplished the 
fabric of imperial power must fall. 

Through the dim mist of ages appears the rugged 
heroism of these men, some dying in the arena, the 
sport of pagan princes, some suffering on the cross the 
martyrdom which the Son of Man made holy, some 
perishing in dungeons, some hacked to pieces with the 
sword, all testifying with that spirit born of truth, fidel- 
ity to the ideals of their faith ! 

Step by step the new religion gained the ascendancy, 
one by one the old ideals fell from their pedestals, the 
old oracles vanished into oblivion, the old gods became 
but poetic dreams, exercising no more influence upon 
the minds of men than the pallid stars that were given 
their names in the days of their glory. 

From Rome, the capital of the world, the servants of 
the cross radiated like the rays of morning, bearing the 
sunlight and the splendor of the new faith — the sav- 
age, lawless hordes of Gaul and Brittany were tamed 
into subjection, and amid the towering pines of the 
Norseland the sagas tell us how Odin and Thor and the 
giants of their mythologA% fled in the wan twihght of 
the gods to the shades of Walhalla and were seen no 
more of men ! The blue-eved Saxon set the cross 



ADDRESSES 1 83 

upon his towers and in the sister isle the Druid's power 
waned, and the Cekic soul embraced the faith with an 
ardor that to this day holds no counterpart, and her 
shamrock sliores encircled the I?le of Saints ! 

A thousand years passed on and we see the pale 
Columbus filied alone by faith, his mission only the 
glory of the Church, fixing his eyes upon that barren 
strip of shadowy shore and shifting sand, the outpost 
and [he sentinel of the new continent. And then again 
the perilous quest, when the whole land was covered 
with missionaries intent on bringing to the aborigines 
the story of their Redeemer. We do not realize what 
these men endured, nor does the world ; history, if it 
is not silent, is apt to distort, but it is well for us to 
know and to maintain that nearly every State, outside 
of New England, was first explored and settled and 
civilized by the black-robed Fathers. 

Jesuit, Dominican, Franciscan and Recollet flung 
themselves into the forest wilds, asking no reward 
save the crown that awaited them in the great beyond. 
Parknian, almost alone of the English-speaking histor- 
ians, has done justice to the patient heroism of the fol- 
lowers of St. Ignatius Loyala. "Not the most hideo:i3 
liiglitmarc of a frenzied brain," he says, "could trans- 
cend in horror the real and waking perils with which 
tht^ Iroquois beset the paths of these intrepid priests. ' 
Wiien we recollect that many cf the missionaries met a 
martyr s fate v/e can understand what courage, moral 
and physical, it required to face the forest and bear the 
faith to the red men. 

Father Jogues was mutilated and tortu.red. Father 
Daniel lost his life arrayed in the vestments of the 
mass, standing at the mission door and shielding witli 
his body the women and children who sought refuge 
within. Father Lallemant was given to the flames, but 
for the lion-hearted Father Brebouef was reserved the 
most avv'ful tortures known to the merciless hearts of 
these fiends. They mutilated, beat and scorchefl him ; 
in derision of the sacrament they poured boiling water 



184 ADDRESSES 

on his head, and hung around his neck a collar of red 
hot hatchets ; after this they seared his lips, cut out his 
tongue, disembowelled him, and finally fastened him 
to a stake and burned what was left of him. 

All this seems almost beyond belief, that men should 
do so much and suffer so much for their faith, but these 
apostles did it for the Church, for those who followed 
after. With clearer vision they saw beyond the tree- 
tops that hid the smoke of sacrifice, the faith they 
fought for, the land they died for, enjoying the fruits of 
the good seed sown. As men in the death throes see 
the past rise before them like a dream, they saw the 
future unfolded. America, the unchallenged mistress of 
the world, the land of peace and plenty, blossoming 
like the fields in May, her children happy, her homes 
secure, for the peace of God dwelt among them and 
made them blest ! And yet despite these sacrifices, 
the hand of the bigot was stretched forth against the 
Church, and with singularly few exceptions such as 
that of Calvert and Dongan, the rulers of the provinces 
had no place for the Catholic, and priests were forbid- 
den to enter within their borders. But the Revolution 
proved the patriotism of the Church, the name of a 
Catholic cannot be found among the Tories, and the 
help of France and Spain showed the Colonists the 
petty meanness and the servile intolerance that kept 
the Catholics from the councils of the free. If they 
could fight for liberty so could they assist in framing 
her laws, and the adoption of the Constitution and its 
amendments forever set at rest any movement which 
discriminated agaiii^t a people because of creed. 

So the Church, a slender light in the wilderness, 
grew in grandeur and in beauty, and soon the sunshine 
of its grace lay across the land, for mighty were the 
minds tha< moved it onward. But even as lago hated 
the honest Ca.=?sio ''because there was a daily beauty in 
his life thrr made him mad," so did the vicious and 
the vapid in this free land hate the Church of light and 
life and love of things eternal ! So fifty years ago a 



ADDRESSES 1 85 

wave of persecution swept across the continent, 
churches were burned, convents were pillaged, poor, 
frail sisters, weak in all but strength of soul, were 
driven into the streets in the blind hate of their pros- 
pering religion. 

All this has passed away and when we recall it we 
wonder, so honored and respected is the Church, can 
it indeed be true? But when we do recall it, let it be a 
messenger from the dead past to rouse the sleeping 
lions of to-day to a sense of what should be done by the 
inheritors of the legacy left to us by those whose works 
and faith had brought to them such woe ! We are not 
asked to bare our breasts to the bullets for our faith, 
we are not asked to dare the desert wild, endure the 
taunts and threats of men made bold by hate and 
lawlessness and lack of moral fibre ! We are not asked 
to forsake our homes to suffer and grow strong amid 
the scorns and scourges of a savage world ! But there 
is work for us to do. We have gained a place in the 
parliament of man by the acts of our forefathers ; we 
are enjoying the fruits of their labors. In the contem- 
plation of their blessed memories, the question I wish to 
bring home to-day is "What are we doing to perpetu- 
ate the work which they began?" 

Do not believe for one moment that the man who 
lives an upright life, who practices the principles and 
performs the duties of his religion in a methodical way 
is doing his full duty. The Cliurch never attained its 
present eminence by this alone, nor was the faith pre- 
served by locking it \Yithin the breasts of men. There 
are in this land to-day eighty millions of people, of 
which barely one-fifth are Catholics. The vast major- 
it}' are d::'ifti:ig away from the moorings of relig'on, 
belief in the rewards or the punishments of a life to 
come is fast fading from their minds, and it is pro- 
claimed that here on earth v.e are to find our punish- 
ment or our reward, our heaven or our hell. 

Against this rising tide the Church must set its face 
and the Church is not the shepherd but the flock. Your 



1 86 ADDRESSES 

pastors are not the ones to take up this burden; their 
hands are full to-day ; it is your place, your mission, 
your cause. You are the leaven that must save the 
whole — you are the force that must show these millions 
that if this course is persisted in, it means utter ruin and 
annihilation in this life without regard to the life to 
come. We are taking religion out of education, and 
our system of common schools, which has accom- 
plished great things, has not instilled into the heart ot 
the child that salutary respect for the rights of others, 
which has its basis only in religion. Therefore our 
public life is corrupt and tainted, our standard of busi- 
ness morality has fallen, and we are to blame, we who 
have been false to our convictions and our ideals of 
right. If the child is not taught how can the man 
know? There are temptations strong enough to over- 
come the scruples of a just man, but if one has never 
been taught justice, what wonder is it that he should 
iall? 

In the eighteenth century education in France was 
in the hands of the Jesuit fathers; the government 
allowed them to be expelled and closed their schools. 
One generation passed, one generation without the 
pious instruction of these holy men, and then France 
was rent asunder, the mob, the torch, the guillotine 
held sway, and the blood red wave of revolution rolled 
across the land once consecrated to God ! And that 
time may come to us. The apostles of Socialism, 
wliich goes hand in hand with infidelity, are vigorously 
preaching their gospel, and it is our duty to beat back 
the approaching tide of unbelief lest our land, too, go 
down in the flood. In this we need no sword or 
shield, only that weapon which Richelieu invoked when 
he declared, "Take away the sword, States can be saved 
without it ; bring me the pen. Beneath the rule of men 
entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword!" 

As we are living in a new century and a new era has 
dawned upon us it is now the pen, the press, the voice 
that are the arms more potent than the armies of Alex- 



ADDRESSES ' I 8/ 

ander in fighting the battles of mankind. And our 
arsenals are ready ; we have Catholic schools in every 
parish, Catholic colleges in every State, and a Catholic 
university in Washington, the peer of any in the land. 
Let us ask ourselves are we doing our full duty to 
them? Are we aiding them with our patronage, sup- 
porting them with our substance, encouraging them 
with our manifestations of approval? How many are 
there who look upon a Catholic institution as being 
something beneath their notice, fit for the poor and 
lowly, but without that air of exclusiveness that befits 
their children? Of course, they are not elegantly 
equipped as are the schools supported by the State, 
but they have not an unlimited amount of wealth to 
draw from — they cannot stretch forth their hands and 
take from the pockets of the poorest laborer even, a 
share of his. earnings, as does the tax gatherer for 
the public schools ! I do not condemn the school sys- 
tem of the State ; it is doing a great work and free 
education is one of the monuments of our land, but 
this system does not go far enough — it stops just where 
real education should begin, in fashioning the moral 
sense of man. So to the school swayed by Catholic 
influence, watched over by the faithful sisters who 
guard inviolate the beauty of the souls committed to 
their charge, you should give your favor, your affection, 
your support. And if you are so fortunate as to be able 
to educate your sons and daughters in the higher 
branches, there are plenty of Catholic colleges where 
your wants may be amply supplied, even though your 
standard is of the highest. 

This, then, is the lesson of my words ; as our fathers 
sufTered for the faith, endured persecution, punishment, 
"sometimes death to preserve for us these sacred truths, 
so should we make some sacrifice to preserve for those 
who follow after what has been handed down to us. 
We must train the brain to conceive, the lips to utter 
with irrefutable logic, the principles of our religion ; we 
must not only have that faith within our souls, but the 



Ib5 ADDRESSES 

reason for that faith upon our Hps to combat and to 
deny the assaults now made upon our creed, which 
once were levelled upon its believers. Into the perils 
and pitfalls of this world our young men go — let them 
not walk blindfold, but let them be possessed of that 
priceless education which will be a star to lead them 
onward, to illumine the dark and glcon"!y ways of l.fe, 
and give them the strength to resist all temptations, to 
reverence all good. The Knights of Columbus can 
have no nobler field than this. With the great example 
of our Admiral before us, let us press on and through 
our labors may it be that the coming generation will 
have that intellectual equipment that shall enable them 
to meet the doubts and fears and threats of men with 
even-tempered scorn, with masterly denial, with inex- 
orable logic and truth ! 

And what a glorious thing it is to work for ; we have 
recently passed througii a stormy period in our nation's 
year, when the land was convulsed with a strife for civil 
supremacy — when almost every one felt the excitement 
of the political struggle and ranged himself on the side 
he considered right, but the side of religion has few 
champions in the market place ; yet it is the only source 
of true happiness here or in the life to come. 

Men hold fast to parties, but parties are ephemeral, 
nations themselves wither and decay, empires which 
stretched in stately magnificence have gone down to 
dust, races have been obliterated, blotted into oblivion, 
yet the Church survives and by its divine character 
must live "when time is old and hath forgot itself, when 
water drops have worn the stones of Troy and blind 
oblivion sv/allowed cities up, and mighty states, char- 
acterless, ai-e grated to dusky nothing!" 

In one of the times that tried men's souls one of our 
poets, radiant with the love of humanity and union, 
chanted : 

"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across tb.e 
sea. 



ADDRESSES 1 89 

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and 

me, 
As He died to make men holy, let ns die to make men 

free, 

Since God is marching on !" 

God is marching on, and we mnst not be laggards by 
the wayside ; as He died to make men holy, let us live 
to make men holy and by so doing make them free ; 
under the broad arch of American freedom to which 
the peoples of all lands are invited, there is the grandest 
opportunity for unselfish work. Upon our shores are 
being landed by the thousands, the poor of southern 
Europe and of central Europe, the lands where our 
faith was cherished ; they saved it for us then, let us 
save it for them now and weave its moral principles 
into the fabric of our national life. Burke speaks of 
knighthood in the days of chivalry as "the nurse of 
manly ambition and heroic enterprise," and it is to- 
day, if we fitly live up to our ideals, of the same char- 
acter, demanding the same sacrificial spirit. 

The achievements of the Catholic Church stand 
unrivalled in human history. But for her, the ages 
would still be dark, and intellect still bound in the fet- 
ters of ignorance. She preserved the fruits of anciem 
scholarship, and she was the scholar unexcelled whose 
mind explored the elements, wrested from nature its 
secrets to assist humanity, made science her servant, 
and followed the tracks of the stars in their fiery 
courses of light. Art has been her pastime and het 
pride, and architecture under her sway has wrought in 
forms divine the mystic beauty of the forest aisles to tell 
us that though the groves were God's first temples, 
His last ones have the exquisite charm that man maj 
add to nature. 

Music, poetry, invention, science and mechanics have 
all been illumined by her light, and if she were not 
divine, she would be recognized among men as the 
superlative influence in civilization. 



190 ADDRESSES 

In the old world they point to the cathedrals, adorned 
with the wondrous imagery of master hands as the 
conspicuous marks of her career, which we to-day can- 
not duplicate, cannot create. In America let it be said 
that the crowning achievement of her genius is the 
education of the youth, for this will surely sustain her 
through the centuries, and preserve her in undimin- 
ished vigir so that there will never be a vast solitude 
for a contemplative New Zealand traveller to muse, 
where now the crown of commerce sits enthroned. 



(Response to a toast at dinner of P>iendly Sons of St. 
Patrick, at Elizabeth, N. J.) 



To enter this convivial circle, presided over by the 
courtly and portly General, and the toastmaster with 
his light and nimble spirit of fancy, airy persiflage and 
delicious badinage, is a delight, a treat and a pleas- 
ure, and I wish I were inspired with the wit of the land 
we honor to-night to do full justice to this occasion, 
this assemblage, this meritorious celebration of the day 
when the Irishman wets his shamrocks and uses his 
real rocks in doing it. All through America our kin- 
dred clasp iiands in the same cause to-night, and 
America, thanks to the arms of the Kellys, the Burkes 
and the Sheas, has its possessions, like England, on 
both sides of the globe. Yet 1 hope we shall never be 
in the sam.e class with England — it is said the sun never 
sets on British possessions, which is probably true and 
prudent, for if it did the English would grab it like 
everything else that has the appearance of gold in it. 

Even in these communities, named after that Queen 
whose record is as distasteful to an Irishman as Hud- 
son's Record is to a Dickinson man, the Irish spirit 
predominates, or we would not have now around this 



ADDRESSES I9I 

table such a splendid aggregation of wit and worth and 
wisdom, such an array of manly pulchritude, intellec- 
tual acumen or poetic inspiration as I now see unfolded 
before me, a picture of contentment and delight. And 
it is because these audiences have been regaled with 
glowang eulogiums of all things Irish, because you go 
miles to get a great Milesian, because the St. Patrick's 
Day banquets bring together the shining orators of 
the State, and sends them home in another state, that 
one feels difftdent in arising to speak. But where there 
is a galaxy of stars, an humble one may shine in the 
reflected light, and here you have distinguished men 
from many places, who have heard that the cream of 
the earth settles in Elizabeth, and we know also, con- 
sidering the character of some of your establishments, 
that the froth rises here, and that is why they come to 
your city to see you blow yourselves olT. 

But I am asked to speak for my native State, New 
Jersey, the home of the Buckwheat — the State of the 
griddle cake and the State that takes the cake ! Fam- 
ous for two things — Jersey justice and Jersey apple- 
jack • one. classical, cold, severe, with all the inherent 
hardness of centuries of English law behind it — one, 
holding in its crystal, opalescent depths that soothing 
spirit from its happy orchards with all the odoriferous 
sweets distilled by soft September suns, and wandering 
winds and gentle autumn rains ! I am told by veraci- 
ous users, that it always cheers, occasionally inebriates, 
but invariably makes a Jerseyman feel that his State 
is larger than Texas ! 

Virginia, mother of Presidents, is justly honored and 
considered great — New Jersey, mother of trusts, is 
greater, for trusts can make Presidents, and, as the 
Argonauts of oid sought the Gardens of the Hesperides 
in search of of wealth, so there come to our borders 
our star boarders, the corporations of the country, who 
pray for a charter and then — prey on the rest of man- 
kind. For we hold out the glad hand to the citizen's 
of every State, we take their money, tainted or other- 



192 ADDRESSES 

wise, except on Sunday, when we permit the weary 
traveller to look through the screens at the forbidden 
fruit that lies beyond his reach, and think how false is 
the sentiment of the popular song which says, 

"I'd rather be on the outside a lookin' in, than on the 
inside a lookin' out." 

Land of many nationalities, discovered by the Dutch, 
settled by the Swedes, civilized by the English, defend- 
ed by the Irish, and mortally afraid of the German 
vote, yet as election day goes by the Dagoes appear to 
hold the balance of power — in war fired by the furies, 
in peace inspired by the breweries, the latch key of 
Philadelphia; the doorstep of New York, she may not 
be always praised but she's always talked about, and, 
like what was said of the broken-down racehorse that 
was sired by Hambletonian, she is damned by every- 
body. 

She is truly a cosmopolitan State ; every art and craft 
and trade is represented here. In school our children 
are taught to draw and later on our legislators can 
draw bills that mean nothing and salaries that mean 
much. They have succeeded in reducing our tax rates to 
a State of uniformity and our taxpayers to a state of 
despair. In invention or mechanics we have no super- 
ior, we have devised voting machines so intelligent that 
they make a citizen vote against his intention, and we 
have other machines so ingenious that they can run the 
government automatically, so devoted are they to the 
public service. Trade is our diversion and in trading 
horses or trading votes the Buckwheat is as cute as a 
Connecticut Yankee. He is never caught napping, he 
stands with one foot on what he has and the other on 
what he wants, and he can straddle a political issue just 
as well. Our business interests do not blush unseen, 
we send pottery to Staffordshire, beer to Bavaria, silk 
to Lyons and your own city turns out more Singers 
than have made famous the Metropolitan Opera 
House. 

Yet work is not our only end ; we have pleasure 



ADDRESSES I93 

grounds like Atlantic City so beautifully situated on the 
island of Absecon, and though safely set above the 
sanlds, is never dry, not even on Sundays ! It has the 
longest board walk in the world, almost as long as a 
bill in one of the beach front hotels, and when one 
stands upon it at night, drinking in the aroma of the 
dark blue sea, he wonders what chemical change ensues 
that puts a dark brown taste in his nioUth the mornmg 
after. There is only one thing against it — the city 
cannot be approached by sea, as there is a bar over 
which ships cannot pass, not even schooners, but this 
does not apply to the bars on the shore ! 

It is the land of milk and honey, for it furnishes the 
cream for the breakfasts of the rich and the beer for the 
dinners of the poor ; it is the land of blood and iron, for 
it slaughters the beef for the metropoUs, and it makes 
the armor plate that can withstand the most destructive 
shell ; it is historic ground, for here strode Washington 
and Wayne and Light Horse Harry Lee ! It is holy 
ground, for all soil is holy where men have made sacri- 
fices for humanity, and here are many altars where 
loving memory pays tribute to those who died that 
P'reedom might be born ! 

Nature from her queenly hand has dowered her with 
charms ; the pilgrim from the Rhine may prate of the 
romantic beauty of that picturesque and storied stream,, 
rich in the recollection of chivalrous days, but tHe 
Palisades unfolded a panorama to the eyes of Hendrik 
Hudson as he sailed up the stately stream that bears 
his name, surpassing it in grandeur, in beauty, in sub- 
limity! Ireland has its lovely lakes, resting like spark- 
ling jewels on the bosom of its hills, "beauty's home,, 
Killarney," the ballad runs, but Hopatcong, with its 
shadowy glens and winding shores, can claim that 
beauty has sought this western world and now reposes- 
among the haunting echoes of that lustrous lake. 

Belgium has its Waterloo, where before the allied 
armies of Europe, the flower of France went dowTi to 
flaming death ; New Jersey has its Trenton, not to be 
compared with it in magnificence or might, but of such 



194 ADDRESSES 

far-reaching significance, for here was broken the back- 
bone of British aggression on that battlefield that was 
the crucial point among the shining deeds in the brave 
days of old ! 

British boasts of her Wellington, New Jersey places 
in its gallery of warlike fame the peerless face or 
George B. McClellan, the gallant Little Mac, l^eloved 
of his men ! France applauds the dashing deeds of 
Marshal Ney, we point to the empty sleeve on the 
statue in the capitol and compare him to Fighting Phil 
Kearny, the hero of Chantilly and Seven Pines, the 
"flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride !" 

And if they call forth their statesmen, Bismarck or 
Beaconsfield, or Gladstone, we point to the dignified, 
quiet, silent Sage of Princeton, the one man who, with 
a word, forced Great Britain to withdraw its hostile 
fleet from South American soil, the man who proclaimed 
before the days of these modern reformers, wrapped 
in the admiration of their own eloquence, that a "public 
office was a public trust !" 

Europe has its scientists, its inventors ; we set beside 
them the Wizard of Llewellyn Park, who placed that 
fairy filament, slighter than a spider's web, within that 
crystal bulb, and blazed it with the fire of his genius, 
until it flamed forth, "the light that never was on sea 
or land, the consecration and the poet's dream !" 

Not to her Caledonian kindred alone is the song of 
Annie Laurie dear, for they tell us that in the Crimean 
midnight long ago, when the soldiers sang before the 
battle, 

"They sang of love and not of fame, 
Forgot was Britain's glory — 
Each heart recalled a different name. 
But all sang Annie Laurie !" 

And there shall be memories of Moore and his 
matchless melodies as long as young hearts feel the 
flame and force and radiance of love's young dream — 
but wherever the English lexicon lives the grave of 
Sweet Alice will be a shrine and the love of Ben Bolt 



ADDRESSES I95 

of the "salt sea gale" will be a charm to tell the world 
that New Jersey had an Irish English who honored the 
language of Shakespeare with his deathless song ! 

If these be the products of Jersey soil, why may we 
not be proud of our commonwealth? There may be 
some who call it a "traitor State," but we resent with 
scorn such an imputation. There may be some things 
in its career to criticize, but the clouds that pass across 
the face of the sun do not forever obscure its eternal 
and celestial light. Mindful of the past, jealous of the 
present, fearless of the future, we still can say of her as 
Brutus of his spouse, "thou art as dear to me as are the 
ruddy drops that visit my sad heart !" 

Let us, therefore, not only talk of the glories of the 
past ; let us resolve to do as well in our smaller sphere 
as those who have passed away. Let us be as true to 
the sterling, inflexible exalted demands of national mor- 
ality, of civic virtues, of public righteousness as those 
who have worn out their lives in its service, and 
though it brings us no material reward, yet, "in the 
night of death when Hope sees a star and listening love 
can hear the rustle of a wing," it may waft to us the 
imperishable consciousness that our humble lives have 
added to the substantial glory of the State, "whose 
deeds shall cling to all high places, like a golden cloua, 
forever !" 



jFragments( of ^peecftess 



(From a speech at Trenton Council, Knights of 
Columbus, on December 12, 1906.) 

To participate in an event which does honor to the 
revered and reverent head of this Diocese would 
bring me much further than I have traveled this even- 
ing. As the humble representative of the six thou- 
sand loyal Catholics in the Knights of Columbus in 



196 ADDRESSES 

this State, 1 feel honored in paying homage to him, in 
conveying to him the assurance that this Order will 
continue faithful to the Church which he so nobly 
represent?, and to which his talents, his enterprise, his 
life are' devoted. That Trenton Council honors him 
for his labors is most natural, that it congratulates him 
on his successes is most proper, that it loves him for 
his manly qualities as it reveres him for his sacred ofifice 
is most evident from the enthusiasm which is displayed 
on this occasion. You mingle with the salt of your 
duty the wine of your pleasure, for it is a duty and a 
pleasure to be here and by your gayety and gladness 
you may dispel the frosts of December, awaken the 
memory of May in your hearts, and fill your fancies 
with the radiant roses of long-remembered Junes ! 

Here in the Capitol City you are surfeited with the 
sight of statesmen and other great men, and there 
passes before your eyes such an army of patriots, burn- 
ing with a desire to serve their State — for a paltry con- 
sideration, that one wonders at the sight of a man who 
only desires to work for his fellow men. I confess 
that I feel some trepidation in coming to this historic 
town, where so many have won a reputation, others lost 
what they came with — to a place where the rivers of 
eloquence never run dry, though the Constitution is 
still as proof against attacks as the railroads are against 
taxes. 

I stand in awe upon the spot where Washington 
worked his way across the Delaware for it never could 
be said of the Father of his Country that everybody 
works but father, yet if he lived to-day it would be 
said that he had only his eye on the Senate. And yet 
his boom might be rocked to sleep also with the rock of 
Gibraltar, like so many others, for it seems there is 
only one man who can disturb that dream and he still 
walks in maiden meditation, fancy free, in keeping with 
his bachelor habits. 

* * * 



ADDRESSES I 97 

(From a speech in Jersey City.) 

Over in Essex, where it may be said that if a man 
wanted to make an honest hving out of poHtics he 
would have no competition, we think we know a thing 
or two also, and though Hudson very recently carefully 
built its bridge, we had a Lethbridge over which the 
Essex men proudly marched to victory ! 

But the battle is not over yet, and the Hudson 
County boys may have the last word when all is done. 
There was a friend of mine called at the house of his 
departed friend, and met his little boy outside. "What 
were your father's last words, Johnnie?" he said. "He 
didn't have any. Mother was with him to the last." 



a lecture on 3rof)n pople ©'aaeillp, ?|i£( 
Hilt mh lesis^on 



Nations, like men, have one goal in view — happiness. 
To secure this, each surrenders his individual liberty 
to the State, which is government. Without govern- 
ments, men would be at the mercy of the predatory 
instincts of others and there would be the rule only of 
force ; therefore, has God implanted in the hearts ot 
mankind the spirit of eternal justice which springs from 
the divinity within them and is anterior to States. He 
has made of men in divers sections of the world com- 
munities in which their tastes, their wants and their 
desires run in the same channel, for it is but natural 
that men with similar inclinations would desire to live 
together. From this has sprung the nation, which I 
comprehend to be that league of peoples of one race, 
of one faith and of one ideal, who would pursue their 
way unhampered and unchecked by the will of others. 
All men with souls would live so, and this is what we 
call patriotism, and it emanates as we see from God 



198 ADDRESSES 

Himself and natural law, though wisdom and reason 
prove its truth and attest it as the unerring and infallible 
guide to human felicity. 

I am led to the expression of these sentiments, which 
are but elemental and primeval truths, that unthinking 
men may comprehend what the love of country is, and, 
knowing this, will the more readily understand why 
the Irish people who have been denied the expression 
of this idea, in spite of wars, in spite of poverty, in 
spite of pestilence, the scaffold and the block, have for 
700 years held in their hearts the ideal of Irish sov- 
ereignty, and will hold it for centuries longer or until 
the epitaph of Emmet may be written. 

And because it is necessary to understand these 
things, I utter them now, that you may clearly know 
why so many men have lived their lives and suffered for 
her cause, that you may understand why they have 
chosen to write their names in blood, to make of the 
gibbet and the rope the emblems of truth and justice, 
that you may understand why a man who had the gifts 
and the genius to make of him a nation's beloved, was 
condemned to death, to exile, to banishment, that he 
was content to live as a convict rather than as a slave, 
in thought, and who, despite of this, spoke louder and 
with sublimer tongue than if the Hill of Tara was made 
for him a pulpit and his assembled auditors as many as 
could gather in its shadow! 

On the banks of the beautiful Boyne, a few miles 
from the spot where Ireland lost her liberties and the 
blood of four nations was commingled in one red ruin, 
was born John Boyle O'Reilly in 1844; there was no 
peace in Ireland then — the agitation of O'Connell had 
ceased, he had liberated the conscience but not the 
men of his country, and now, a fit type of her wasted 
frame, he sat in the darkness waiting for his release ! 
Young Ireland, that brilliant but fatuous effort of those 
ardent spirits of '48, was but a dim dream in the minds 
of Mitchell, Meagher, Davis and Duffy; there were 
those still living who remembered the dark days of '98 



ADDRESSES 1 99 

and that mournful 3'ear that ushered in the new cen- 
tury, in which the Parhament of Ireland sold her inde- 
pendence and closed the book of her progress whicTi 
the illustrious Grattan had opened eighteen years be- 
fore. 

O'Reilly's father was a teacher, a scholar of renown, 
versed in the lore and legend of his native land ; his 
mother possessed that poetic imagination which illumi- 
nates the Celtic spirit, and we can picture the earnest, 
bright-taced boy as he listened with glowing eyes to 
the tales of misery and persecution which naturally 
spring from the lips of those who know that history 
and lament their fate ! No stream so long and wind- 
ing but what carries into the great sea the waters 
which rose from the fountains far back in the mystic 
shadows of wood and hill — so will a man bear into the 
great sea of life the memories that rise like living tears 
from the haunting chambers of his youth, and no 
envious tide can darken the perennial waters of their 
sweetness ! With the eyes of a child he saw grim 
famine stalk across the land, but his manhood's vision 
saw the no less terrible blight of foreign rule that drove 
the jtrength and beauty of Erin from her shores or 
chained them to the chariot wheels of the conqueror ! 
We, enjoying our manifold blessings, cannot realize 
what it is to live in a land where the very language has 
been taken from the people, her industries stifled, her 
sons shackled and exiled, her faith proscribed ; seven 
hundred years of wrong have left their shadows upon 
her face, but through them all, her eyes luminous with 
the light of truth look up to the sunlight and the stars 
and her voice, vibrant with the pathos of despair, still 
nerves her sons to offer up their lives upon the altar 
of her honor ! 

O'Reilly listened to her voice and grew to manhood 
dreaming of her redemption ; as a youth of nineteen 
he allied himself with the Irish revolutionary party 
around which crystallized the hopes of Ireland in the 
early sixties. To them force alone appealed, and well 



2O0 ADDRESSES 

might they depend upon it, for by it had they been sub- 
jugated and kept in subjection from Cromwell to Vic- 
toria. They formed a plan to strike from within, and 
in consonance with that idea, O'Reilly joined the 
British army as a member of the Tenth Hussars. It 
has been said that this was a dishonorable act, but a 
nation which knew no code of honor and whose 
ascendancy was gained through fraud and force cannot 
plead that in the hour of trial ; all is fair in love and 
war the world over, and he was animated by the spirit 
of both passions — love for his countrymen, war for her 
enemies. He was a good soldier — every Irishman is. 
Thirty per cent, of the army was Irish and a unified 
effort would strike terror to the heart of England. 
Unfortunately for them, at this juncture the plot was 
frustrated by the efforts of spies, more particularly that 
of Talbot, who is forever held up to the execration of 
mankind by being pictured by Boucicault as Harvey 
Dufif in the Shaughran ! The Irish People, the newspaper 
organ of the party, was seized, its editors, Thomas 
Clarke Luby, O'Donovan Rosa and John Leary, 
arrested, and the arrest of O'Reilly and others soon 
followed, the latter being charged with having knowl- 
edge of a mutiny and withholding that knowledge from 
his superiors. His trial and conviction soon followed, 
and though sentenced to death, his sentence was finally 
commuted to imprisonment for twenty years. 

He became a convict at hard labor in Dartmore 
prison, where he endured the horrors of filth and misery 
and persecution that England expiates on her political 
prisoners, treating them much worse than those con- 
victed of the foulest crimes. Here their work in sum- 
mer was the grinding of the refuse bones from the 
prison kitchen, in the stifling heat of the yard ; in 
winter the draining of the miasmatic marshes sur- 
rounding the jail with all its attendant train of malaria 
and rheumatism. Here ^yas Michael Davitt confined a 
decade after, where, as he says, "I have seen men 
punished for eating candles, boot oil and other repul- 



ADDRESSES 20I 

sive articles, and although prison candles are purposely 
given a highly repulsive odor to prevent them from 
being eaten instead of burnt, half-starved men are 
driven to desperation and anything that a dog can eat 
is nowise repugnant to their taste." To such a fate 
were sensitive men consigned, but at last came the 
news — welcome in a degree — that they were to be 
transported to Australia, and sixty-three political 
prisoners were sent on board a prison ship, among 
them being O'Reilly. So attractive were his gifts of 
mind and person that he soon gained the favor of the 
guards and was allowed great liberties, by means of 
which he assisted in the preparation of a weekly paper, 
"The Wild Goose," and every Saturday read it aloud 
to the prisoners between decks, his own poems appear- 
ing with the heroic chants of Davis and of Savage. 
And night after night, these people, Protestant and 
CathoHc alike, joined in one prayer, one sublime appeal 
to the Father of all for the ultimate salvation and 
freedom of their native land ! 

So the voyage went and in June, 1868, the vessel 
reached Freemantle, Western Australia, and the poet 
patriot became convict 9843 of the convict colony of 
Bunbury. Here also he ingratiated himself with the 
officials by the open manliness of his nature and was 
made a messenger between the various camps. From 
the day of liis landing he dreamed of escaping, but 
there was little chance for that, with the trackless, unin- 
habitable bush behind him and the great sea before. 
He confided his hopes to the chaplain of the colony, 
Father McCabe, and was told to wait. Finally, some 
months after, a messenger came to him from the priest 
directing him to take to sea and embark on a small 
boat, from which he would be picked up by an Ameri- 
can whaler then cruising in these waters. For two 
days he rowed about and saw the vessel in the distance, 
but from some unknown cause it did not approach him 
and he was forced to hide in the woods for several 
days, without water and without food save for the meat 



202 ADDRESSES 

of some opossums which he caught and killed with his 
hands. Again a messenger from the priest brought 
tidings that he was to go to sea once more, as arrange- 
ments had been made with the captain of another vessel 
to take him on board, O'Reilly started out and some 
hours after was lifted from his frail craft by Mate Henry 
C. Hathaway, of the Vigilant, and warmly welcomed 
by Captain Gifford, of that vessel. But his trials were 
not over yet; the vessel touched at Rodriguez, a British 
port, and here it was hailed by a corps of soldiers in 
search of him. He stood by the side of Captain Gifford 
when the officer asked, "Have you a convict called 
O'Reilly on board?"' "No," said the captain, "there 
is no man called by that name on board," which was 
literally true, for he was known as John Brown. The 
soldiers left him, but there happened to be on board 
another escaped convict who was a criminal, and he 
was seen and taken prisoner. Maddened at the thought 
that he was to be taken and O'Reilly left, he revealed 
the truth to the British, and the next day they returned 
to the ship. But O'Reilly was not to be taken without 
a struggle. He concealed himself in the hold and some 
of his friends conspired to throw a grindstone over- 
board, with his hat, and pretended that he had sought 
death in the waves rather than capture. The ruse 
succeeded, and for the second time he escaped, this 
time effectually, for in a few months he landed at 
Philadelphia, on November 27, 1869. His first act 
was characteristic of his nature, for when the vessel 
touched the dock, he walked to the courthouse and 
there declared his intention of becoming a citizen of 
the United States. 

O'Reilly's reputation had preceded him to this coun- 
try, where many of his comrades had taken refuge, and 
he was warmly welcomed. But he had a living to 
make and, as many public spirited men do, he turned 
to the lecture platform and was well received, for the 
Irish question was a topic which could not fail to 
engage the attention of an audience. This, however. 



ADDRESSES 2O3 

was but a precarious means of earning a livelihood, and 
a position was secured for him in the Inman Steam- 
ship Company, in Boston, which he held until the 
owners of that line in London found that an Irish 
political prisoner was in its employ and Boston was 
soon told to let him go. The Boston Pilot, that safe 
old guide of Irishmen and Catholics, was then without 
an editor, and the publisher, Patrick Donahue, engaged 
O'Reilly, who was in his natural element as a journalist. 
For twenty years, and until his death, that paper was 
found advocating every beneficial movement in the coun- 
try, and none exercised a more potential influence on 
public affairs while O'Reilly was at the helm. 

His first reportorial experience was in following the 
fortimes of that almost forgotten Fenian host which 
invaded Canada in 1870 under command of General 
John O'Neil, and this wretched, misguided movement, 
which came to such an untimely end, was well 
described in his letters to The Pilot and the sheer folly 
of it all explained. His professional and physical cour- 
age in that disastrous event brought him into promi- 
nence ; soon his articles were widely known, his poems 
appeared in the literary journals, and Boston, which 
has many celebrities, was not slow to learn that here 
was one whose metal equalled any on her lists. He 
became not alone the friend of all her people, but the 
lion of her elect, Emerson, Holmes, Phillips, Long- 
fellow, Lathrop, Trowbridge and Aldrich numbering 
him among their friends, for the romance of his life 
and his distinguished talents naturally appealed strongly 
to poetic minds. 

He was the popular poet of the time, his were the 
odes for public occasions, he the principal speaker at 
the prominent events, and his orations, matchless all, 
have the dignity of the Greeks with the beauteous 
imagery that the Celtic bards have made their own. 

Knowing what oppression was, he was the friend 
of the oppressed of all races, and this was typified by 
his respect for the negro race and the efforts he made 



204 ADDRESSES 

in their behalf. To one of these was directed one of 
his finest poems. The Boston massacre, in which was 
shed the first blood of the Revolution, was caused by 
the efforts of a few to drive the British soldiers out of 
Boston. It was led by Crispus Attucks, a negro, who 
was the first man to fall ; with him and among the other 
three who gave their lives for freedom was Patrick 
Carr, whose name denotes his nationality, and to these 
men has Boston raised a monument opposite its State 
House, which commemorates for all time the fact that 
the despised black man, and the once despised Celt 
were the first sacrifices that humanity made for free- 
dom, in the city that is the cradle of liberty ! 

"O blood of the people, changeless tide, through cen- 
tury, creed or race, 

Still one as the sweet, salt sea is one, though tempered 
by sun and place, 

The same in the ocean currents, the same in the 
sheltered seas. 

Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly 
sympathies ; 

One love, one hope, one duty theirs ! No matter the 
time or ken, 

There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of 
men !" 

The admiration of Boston for O'Reilly has no paral- 
lel in the case of any other naturalized citizen in any 
other American city ; week after week The Pilot blazed 
forth with his leaders and every wrong was bitterly 
excoriated, every right fortified and defended. The 
Pilot finally came into his hands ; through unwise busi- 
ness ventures its owner, Donahue, was forced to sus- 
pend and the paper was bought from the trustees by 
the Archbishop of Boston and O'Reilly. Among the 
liabilities of Donahue was the sum of $70,000, repre- 
senting deposits made by the poor people of Boston, and 
for which the paper was in no way liable. But the 



ADDRESSES 205 

magnanimous nature of OReilly would not suffer them 
to lose and he declared that he would assume the debt, 
and tor ten years he made annual payments to this end, 
eventually liquidating it entirely and not a depositor 
lost a dollar. 

His nature was conspicuously devoid of bigotry. At 
one time it was proposed to hold an Irish convention in 
Cleveland, the purpose of which was to unite the Irish 
into a movement to support only those of that race 
for political preferment. This he denounced with all 
the force of his fervent nature, as being but the aping 
of the Know Nothings, and an idea recreant to every 
principal of citizenship. He labored to eradicate the 
hostile feelings between the religions, for he said, a 
united Ireland was necessary to bring about any change 
in her condition, and he gave full credit to the Protest- 
ants who had labored in her cause. 

But he was a Catholic through and through ; his 
warmest friends were clergymen, and those who dif- 
fered with him respected the honest sincerity of his 
faith. In a letter to a non-Catholic friend he said : 

"A great, loving, generous heart will never find peace 
and comfort and field of labor except within her un- 
statistical, sunlike, benevolent motherhood. I am a 
Catholic just as I am a dweller on the planet, and a 
lover of yellow sunlight, and flowers in the grass, and 
the sound of birds. Man never made anything so like 
God's work as the magnificent, sacrificial, devotional 
faith of the hoary but young Catholic Church. There 
is no other church; they are all just way stations!" 

Of his gentle, kindly, non-combative nature what 
tribute could be greater than that paid to him by Ben- 
jamin F. Butler when he said : "For twenty years the 
legal adviser of O'Reilly, a most unprofitable client, for 
he never had a lawsuit or a contention !" 

Yet peace loving as he was, he would make an of- 
fence against a poor emigrant a personal matter and 
never cease his warfare until the offender had repaired 
the fault and amply atoned for the wrong. 



206 ADDRESSES 

It is only natural that such a man would be interested 
in politics; but he was no blind partizan except in the 
sense that to him the principles of Jefferson contained 
the essence of free g-overnment, "the changeless basis 
of sound politics and healthy republicanism." "It 
means," he said, "the teaching of absolute trust in the 
people of the States to understand and provide for their 
own interests. It means home rule in every community 
right through our system from the township up to the 
State Legislature; and above that, her loyalty to the 
Union. It means antagonism to all men. classes and 
parties that throw distrust and discredit on the w^orking 
or common people, and who insinuate or declare that 
there is a higher, nobler or safer patriotism 
among the wealthy and more book learned classes than 
the common people possess or appreciate. It means 
that Democratic principles must be followed by individ- 
ual citizens as well as by the aggregated party, that 
they must oppose the petty boss in their own caucuses, 
and the arrogant majority in their own town, when these 
attempt to coerce the rights of the masses or change 
the self-governing principle of the free town." 

A good creed this, good for all time, and he put it 
into practice, knowing that eternal vigrilance is neces- 
sary to preserve what these principles have gained 
for us. 

Men die, but poets are gifted with eternal life ; their 
souls may cleave the stars, but their own souls remain 
on earth, that spirit which was born to dwell eternally 
in the minds of men from generation to generation. 
"The singer who lived is always alive ; we hearken and 
always hear!" The patriot may be forgotten, truly 
so if he accomplishes naught ; the orator will live per- 
haps while his auditors remain ; the songs will live 
forever, for they are graven on the immutable monu- 
ments which Time erects for the builders of lordly 
rhyme ! Boston as we know prides herself on her 



ADDRESSES 207 

knowledge. Emerson, her prophetic voice, said : 

"For what though rival cities soar 
Like shells along the coast, 
Penn's town. New York and Baltimore, 
If Boston knows the most !" 

It must be one of more than ordinary talents that 
she takes to her austere heart and enthrones him on 
her hilltops there as the same poet sings. But for 
the celebration of her greatest event, in 1889, the land- 
ing of the Pilgrims, she selected this exile, passing over 
her own great sons, the descendants of these men. 
But well O'Reilly wrought in words of force and flame 
the glory of these men, those inflexible, large-moulded 
heroes, who seemed to have taken into their breasts the 
granite bases of New England's towering hills ! 

"How sum their merits? They were true and brave, 
They broke no compact and they owned no slave, 
They had no servile order, no dumb throat ; 
They trusted first the universal vote ; 
The first were they to practice and instill 
The rule of law and not the rule of will ; 
They made no revolution based on blows, 
But taught one truth that all the planet knows, 
That all men think of, looking on a throne — 
The people may be trusted with their own !" 

Fresh from the turf came his lighter fancies, and 
the world-weary cry of the dreamer never found such 
expression as in his wistful lines : 

"J am tired of planning and toiling 

In the crowded hives of men. 
Heart-weary of building and spoiling 

And spoiling and building again ; 
And I long for the dear old river. 

Where I dreamed my youth away; 



208 ADDRESSES 

For a dreamer lives forever, 
But a toiler dies in a day !" 

"In Bohemia" is perhaps his best loved and best 
known poem ; how he scorns the commercialism of life 
in its worst phases, its cant and chilling charity: 

"The thirsty of soul soon learn to know 
The moistureless froth of the social show; 
The vulgar sham of the pompous feast. 
Where the heaviest purse is the highest priest ; * * * 
The smile restrained, the respectable cant 
Where a friend in need is a friend in want ; * * * 
Oh, I long for the glow of a kindly heart and the grasp 

of a friendly hand, 
And I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other 

land !" 

He was truly the poet of manhood ; when Phillips 
died what a requiem he chanted for the hero who had 
stood for a higher than human law ! 

"For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was 

a prophet's cry, 
To be true to the Truth and faithful, though the world 

was arrayed for the Lie ; 
From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening 

voice has past. 
But the lives of those who believe and die are not 

blown like a leaf on the blast ; 
A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed 

toward the light. 
Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was 

traitor to Right!" 

And his Irish poems, oh, what a wealth of words he 
lavished upon her head, that Erin from which his kingly 
soul never forswore allegiance ; there is too much to be 
quoted here and I commend him to all who believe with 
him, in the last song he wrote — 



ADDRESSES 209 

"As the leaf grows sunward song must grow, 
As tlie stream flows onward song must flow ; 
Useless ? Ay, for measure ; roses die. 
But their breath gives pleasure — God knows why." 

In many of his orations his words have that crisp, 
exalted sound that one only can pronounce who can lay 
bare the heart and put his fingers on the workings of 
the soul ! 

"The highest duty that ever comes to a man is not 
to do a deed of prowess or win a material victory, but 
to endure^ suffer and die for the cause of freedom. 
Th( highest honor that a man can bear in life or death 
is the scar of a chain borne in a good cause." Thus 
said he of John Edward OTCelly, and thus said he of 
his land: "No country on earth has ever called forth 
deeper devotion. Her altar stones are red with the 
bloody offerings of twenty generations of men. The 
heartless, the ignorant and the ignoble of other races 
sometimes weigh the result against the cost and shake 
their heads. But they only tell the world that they 
arc not of the stuff' to keep up a losing fight for seven 
hundred years with odds of five to thirty in number 
and five to a million in organization and wealth. The 
Irish have never lost a man in their long fight, for no 
man is lost who is as strong in death as in life." 

Again in a Decoration Day speech : "There is no elo- 
quence Hke that of death. There is no reconciliation, 
like that of the grave. There is no reward higher than 
love. There is no crown so precious as a wreath of 
flowers. Common rewards may be of gold or jewels. 
But the highest prizes, like the highest services, cannot 
be measured ; we can only express them in symbols." 
It will be seen that this man knew what service was-- 
the service whose wage cannot be paid here, but where 
moth cannot corrupt, nor thieves break through and 
steal. 

So O'Reilly lived; in 1890 he was the foremost Irish- 
man in America, and that is saying much ; he had the 



210 ADDRESSES 

respect and esteem of all — a loving family, a gracious 
wife whom he nursed and watched with tender devo- 
tion, for she was but a frail invalid — an audience which 
included all under the English-speaking skies ; a future 
(he was but forty-six), which seemed fraught with the 
greatest honor^ but the world was startled on that 
summer morning when the news was flashed that he 
was dead ! But the shock of his sudden death, strong 
though it may be, was nothing to the feeling of bitter 
desolation his people experienced after the first few days 
had passed and it was realized what they had lost by his 
untimely taking ofif ! 

There was mourning for O'Reilly, but it was mourn- 
ing for America that had lost him, for Ireland that had 
borne him and whose green fields might never see his 
face ! 

The pulpit, the press and the bar stood with uncov- 
ered heads beside his bier, but oh, how sharp were 
the pangs that lordly grief might not experience, that 
cleaved the hearts of those of his race, those simple 
men and women who pitied him for his sufiferings, 
admired him for his wisdom, revered him for his purity 
and loved him for his land ! 

To him came no posthumous fame. Boston had 
placed him on a pedestal years before, and that all men 
for all ages might note her admiration for genius, re- 
gardless of its birthplace or his name, she had placed 
his face at the entrance of her fairest park, where 
Fame and Patriotism weep over his brow, and Glory 
lays her laurels upon it. 

If the lives of some men are romantic, his was an 
epic; it was conceived upon an exalted plane and his 
deeds were those that only a hero might perform. That 
lie passed through the poisonous atmosphere of prison 
pen and convict camp, that his enforced relations with 
the scourings and the scum of English towns did not 
bring any contagion to his mind, tells in the highest 
terms of the adamantine whiteness of his character ! 



ADDRESSES 211 

The true pearl may lie in nind and mire, but its pristine 
purity remains. 

And this pure spirit was expressed in all his writings 
— one knew he wrote from the heart. "To believe 
your own thoughts — to believe that what is true for you 
in your private heart is true for all men — that is 
genius !" 

Thus said Emerson. O'Reilly showed this trait, and 
his lips, therefore, became the inspiration of those who 
listened to him, and he spoke to no audience bounded 
by the hills of Boston, for the exile of the Gael has 
planted his feet wherever the stars hold dominion, and 
to them his oracular utterances were like syllables of 
the soul rather than mere speech ! It was because of 
this faculty, this secret stream of feeling that flowed 
between him and his audience, that he was enabled to 
enthuse them with his enthusiasm, to fire them with 
his fire. Hubbard says : "The great orator has ever 
been a man of sorrows ; acquainted with grief ;" true 
it was in this case, but the sorrows not only purified an3 
ennobled him, but gifted him with a divine compassion 
that pitied because it had felt the need of pity ! Upon 
him was visited the scourge and the scorn of the land 
that should have honored him — it left him wjth his 
faith in humankind unscathed ! 

The world hearkens to the man who preaches dawn 
instead of darkness ! If you want soldiers to follow, 
the drums must beat a charge and not a dirge — it is 
only the baser mind that appeals to the passions and 
the resentments of others — the men of heroic stature 
who loom above the multitude can see farther ofif, and 
mark their progress by the hilltops, not the valleys 
between ! It is the deepest pool that best reflects the 
light of the stars ; shallow minds, like shallow waters, 
cannot receive such heavenly Hght and give it back 
unscarred ! 

O'Reilly had trod the martyr's path, he had passed 
through the valley of the shadow of death and there is 
an undercurrent of sadness in all he wrote, perhaps on 



212 ADDRESSES 

that account. Yet he was the best of jovial comrades 
— the wittiest in the company of wits ; the pert and 
nimble spirit of fancy played round his finger tips when- 
ever his hand sought to picture the follies and frivoli- 
ties of his friends. 

His personality was unique — even his presence ex- 
haled a charm and his dark eyes, luminous with the light 
of smiles and song, could awake a tremulous echo in the 
hearts of the most unresponsive. A child cannot be 
deceived — they are too fresh from the skies to lose 
that unerring sense which the perfect mind possesses, 
and the boys of Boston doited their caps to him, for in 
him they recognized a kindred soul. 

Such was the career and such were the achievements 
of John Boyle O'Reilly. Under the sod of Holyrood 
Cemetery he sleeps, and above him only a huge mono- 
lith, a massive rock of many tons, the grim granite of 
his State, in all its rugged grandeur as it came from 
the hands of the Creator in the dim eons centuries ago, 
marks the spot where he lies. Upon it there is no 
laudatory inscription, reciting his deeds and his renown, 
yet there is a sermon in the stone, for it proclaims to 
the world that here, here in America, there is oppor- 
tunity — that though England may cast out a great soul 
as if it were carrion, the rude seas are kind to him and 
the granite ledges of the land of the Pilgrim afford 
him a rest for his weary feet ! More than a native he 
loved his adopted land ; we see it in every stanza that 
he breathed, every line he wrote in which he conse- 
crated to the genius of our institutions the strength and 
sweetness of his brain, England honors those talented 
Irishmen who cHng to her dominion; she has placed 
upon a pedestal with her dearest sons the names of 
Berkeley, of Burke, of Sheridan, of Goldsmith, of 
Wellesly, but let one sing of Ireland's wrongs, and the 
waters of no Marah are too bitter to express her hatred 
of the race she has conquered, although it may be still 
in heart and soul and spirit unconquerable ! 

It was not destined for him to see the verdant lanes 



ADDRESSES 213 

where his youthful days were spent ; he was not per- 
mitted to kneel at the grave of his mother, but oh, how 
he longed to see that land ! "Seek out the spot," he 
said to a friend who was about to return there, "and 
you will see the fairest place on earth. Oh, God, how I 
should like to see it once more !" 

His love for America did not blot it from his heart — 
when a man takes a wife to his bosom, he does not 
forget the mother who bore him, for the young love 
rather consecrates and makes tenderer the old ; he gave 
his heart to the young bride of the West, but the tear- 
stained eyes of Inisfail had looked into the chambers 
of his soul and her withered hands were laid upon his 
heart ! 

And did she call in vain? It is not given to human 
mind to know what passed in that still hour when the 
vital spark flickered and went out in the summer's 
dawn, but we can imagine that grand spirit forbidden 
to look upon the land of his birth in his exile ; we may 
imagine that when it loosed its bonds of flesh the 
delighted soul sped across the seas, and hovered like 
an angel's whisper above the emerald lawns, the crystal 
waters and the shamrocked slopes of Erin before it 
sought the refuge of the stars and felt "upon its wasted 
brow, the breath of eternal morning!" 

And oh, in the after years, one can fancy how 
O'Reilly's spirit would rejoice, if through the silent 
gates of that city of the dead some pilgrim to the tomb 
of buried love should find his way, and, standing by that 
grave, ask the question which he himself replied to in 
the days of his glory: 

"How did he live, that dead man there, 
In the country churchyard laid? 
O, he? He came for the sweet field air; 
He was tired of the town and he took no pride 
In its fashion or fame. He returned and died 
In the place he loved, where a child he played 
With those who have knelt by his grave and prayed. 



214 ADDRESSES 

He ruled no serfs and he knew no pride, 
He was one with the workers side by side ; 
He hated a mill and a mine and a town, 
With their fever of misery, struggle, renown ; 
He could never believe but a man was made 
For a nobler end than the glory of trade. 
He was weak, maybe, but he lost no friend ; 
Who loved him once, loved on to the end. 
He mourned all selfish and shrewd endeavor, 
But he never injured a weak one — never. 
When censure was passed, he was kindly dumb; 
He was never so wise but a fault would come ; 
He was never so old that he failed to enjoy 
The games and dreams he had loved when a boy. 
He erred and was sorry ; but never drew 
A trusting heart from the pure and true. 
When friends look back from the years to be, 
God grant they may say such things of me." 



Columbus; 



(Oration delivered by Charles J. Barrett at the 400th 
anniversary of the landing of Columbus, October 21, 
1892, on the occasion of the unfurling of a flag, at 
the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows, South Orange, 
N. j.) 

Upon this day, forever memorable as the annivers- 
ary of that event which gave to the civilized world a 
new continent, we meet to raise aloft the flag of our 
Union, emblematic of the social system which is the 
grandest result of that discovery, emblematic of the 
growth and development of civil liberty, the crystalliza- 
tion of that idea, that "a government of the people, for 
the people, and by the people" is the crowning glory 
of mankind. 

We celebrate the deed of the fearless navigator who 



ADDRESSES 21 5 

placed his frail bark in the hand of God, to guide him 
over the unknown seas ; we celebrate the close of a 
century of prosperity, we celebrate the nativity of 
America. 

Four hundred years ago to-day the morning gun of 
the Pinta awoke the silence of a new world. 

Four hundred years ago to-day the light of faith first 
shone on the darkness of its savage solitude. 

Human hfe upon it co-existed with that of Europe, 
but of such little significance that the deeds of its in- 
habitants left no traces, or traditions, as a part of the 
world's history. 

Here was, indeed, an untouched field for the experi- 
ments in social order, which had occupied the minds of 
men for centuries in the old world. 

Here might be worked out, uninfluenced by ancient 
conditions, the problem of human government which had 
vexed the minds of thinkers and sages ; here might be 
laid the foundation of the new order, which was des- 
tined to be as a pillar of fire to lead the natives of the 
earth to the promised land ; here, was a virgin world, 
which had dreamed away the centuries since "darkness 
brooded over the face of the waters," and now awoke 
to the possibilities of humanity, awoke to be/ the instru- 
ment in the hands of Divine Providence in lifting the 
veil from the face of Liberty. 

Eons ago, the morning stars sang together at the 
creation of Earth — and the morning stars sang as the 
new world arose from the mist of the deep to the 
anxious eyes of Columbus. 

The civilized world consisted then of Europe, and 
the African and Asiatic lands which bordered on the 
Mediterranean. Man's sum of knowledge was circum- 
scribed by the deserts of the two continents, and the 
great seas on the west, for beyond the Peak of Ten- 
erifife was a stretch of unknown seas, where never 
ship had sailed. 

Science was in its infancy ; Art had not yet blossomed 
forth in that medieval splendor which gave to us a 



2l6 ADDRESSES 

Raphael and an Angelo. The incalculable benefits of 
printing had just begun to be dimly realized, and the 
records of past ages were garnered in great libraries 
beyond the reach of the multitude. Commerce alone 
flourished, and the great maritime cities, grown opulent 
by trade, maintained navies which no Emperor enjoyed 
and no kingdom could obtain. 

Fearless adventurers had penetrated to the East 
Indies, and the treasures of the Orient were brought 
as tributes to the feet of the Queen of the Adriatic. 
But the voyage round the cape was long and danger- 
ous, and overland the route was encompassed by savage 
tribes, who waged a merciless war on the travellers. 
Man, ever curious to know what lies beyond his ken, 
chafed under these restraints, and in imagination 
peopled these unknown shores with strange shapes of 
men and beasts, "the authropophagei, and those whose 
heads do grow beneath their shoulders !" 

The age was ripe for a genius to dissipate the mys- 
tery and obscurity. 

At that time appeared a new figure in the world's 
history. A plain, simple, ordinary sailor, without elo- 
quence, without wealth, without youth, yet he had that 
supreme confidence in himself, that faith which could 
not be shattered or shaken, enabling him to overcome 
all obstacles, and realize his lifetime's dream. 

With an intellect unimpaired by the vicissitudes of 
many voyages, logical, observant and calculating, from 
the ''cyclopcariiworkshop" of his brain, he evolved an 
idea to which he clung through years of doubt and 
denial. 

He cast aside the cosmography of his contempo- 
raries, and boldly assumed the theories of Ptolemy and 
Strabo, that the earth was spherical, and might be safely 
circumnavigated. 

Imbued with the idea that a westward wind would 
waft him to the Indies, and conscious of the commer- 
cial benefits of this route, he went from court to court, 



ADDRESSES 21/ 

imploring and pleading for assistance in fitting out an 
expedition of discovery. 

Some looked upon the scheme as the chimera of a 
madman ; others, impressed with the potentialities of 
his argument, hesitated when the expense was made 
known, but at last he won the favor of the Spanish 
Queen, who entered enthusiastically into the scheme, 
and funds were placed at his disposal. 

What difficulties he encountered, what obstacles he 
overcame, need not be related here. 

On a gray August morning in 1492, the three cara- 
vals set out from the port of Palos. 

"They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow 
Until at last the blanched mate said, 
'Why now, not even God should know 
Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way. 
For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say — ' 
He said, 'Sail on! Sail on! and on!' 

"Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 
And peered through darkness. Ah ! that night, 
Of all dark nights ! And then, a speck — 
A light ! A light ! A light ! A light ! ! 
It grew — a starlit flag unfurled! 
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world ; he gave that world 
Its grandest lesson : On ! and on !" 

He found a land of unparalleled splendor on which 
Nature had lavished all its beauties, where the eye was 
charmed by the sight of lovely landscapes, and undulat- 
ing shores, and the senses intoxicated with the frag- 
rant perfume of myriad flowers. 

He found this new world paradise, peopled with a' 
magnificent race, and his heart grew glad with the 
thought of the inestimable blessings, the civilizing and 



2l8 ADDRESSES 

ennobling influences of Christianity, would bring to the 
dusky aborigines. 

Many have sought to detract from the name and 
fame of Columbus. 

The iconoclastic touch of nineteenth century criti- 
cism spares neither the noble, the charitable nor the 
good, but his "name and glory shall cling to all high 
places, like a golden cloud forever," and men shall 
make his memory immortal. 

What if the bold Norseman or the adventurous Celt 
had landed upon the New England coast centuries be- 
fore? They were but outlaws of the sea, in search of 
plunder, and the episode was forgotten save for the 
legendary tale as chanted in the rude songs of the 
Vikings. 

Columbus was a pioneer ! 

To his efforts, to his intellect, to his triumph we owe 
the inauguration of that era of discovery which brought 
forth a Vespucci, a Cabot, a Magellan, a DeSota, and 
the host of hardy heroes who bore the conquering 
banners of civilization through the primeval wilds. 

It was the triumph of intellect, of patience, of Faith ! 

His latest biographer (Castelar) says: 

"To cross the seas of life, naught sufRces save the 
bark of Faith. In that bark the undoubting Columbus 
set sail, and at his journey's end found a new world. 
Had that world not have existed, God would have 
created it in the solitude of the Atlantic, if to no other 
end than to reward the faith and constancy of that 
great man !" 

When the wondrous tale of discovery was told in the 
Spanish Court, Europe was astounded. The fleets of 
the world turned their prows westward, and the men 
who derided and mocked the claims of Columbus were 
the first to follow in his wake. 

Great captains to win renown, merchants with the 
hope of gain, princes to acquire new territories, were 
mingled with holy men whose sole object was to spread 



ADDRESSES 2I9 

the light of Faith, and bring souls to the foot of the 
Cross. 

They felled the forests ; they bridged the streams ; 
they cleared the fields ; they pathed the mountains, and 
the primitive woods took on the aspect of civilization. 

The echo of the woodman's axe broke the solitude 
once sacred to the red man, and the smoke of the set- 
tlers' cabin drove the wigwams further into the wilds. 
Many emigrants sought exile from foreign oppression 
on account of race and religion, and to them the new 
world was as a veritable Canaan to which they escaped 
from the land of bondage. 

Though nominally under a foreign government, 
absence from the atmosphere of courts begot in them 
an independence until the mere thought of a sovereign 
ruling power became irksome. Then came the impo- 
sition of taxes in an inequitable manner, and the spirit 
of the colonists rebelled at the thought of being taxed 
for the support of a government in which they had no 
representation, and the smouldering fires of resentment 
burst forth into flame. 

At Concord, "where the embattled farmers stood, and 
fired the shot heard round the world !" the first overt 
act of rebellion occurred. 

Patrick Henry caught the infection in the Virginia 
Legislature, and his voice was as a trumpet call to 
arise ! The land was alive with liberty-loving peas- 
antry ! 

The Revolution came. The patriots fought for life 
and home. 

With rude arms, lack of military skill and execution, 
yet so animated were they with the thought that the 
destinies of mankind lay in the conflict, that their primi- 
tive militia overcame the well-drilled forces of the Eng- 
lish Crown, and they won. Left to themselves to devise 
a government, they founded one under the Articles of 
Confederation. It soon proved defective, and a new 
one was formed, stronger, yet allowing the fullest lib- 



220 ADDRESSES 

erty to the individual ; centralized, yet preserving the 
autonomy of the States. 

The creation of men unskilled in statesmanship and 
diplomacy, yet it is so equitable in its provisions, so 
conscious of the rights of citizenship, so firm and stable, 
that it has stood the tests of a hundred years and is 
the model and admiration of mankind. For the first 
time in the world's history the hand of the people 
wrote the laws, and the wisdom of the multitude found 
expression in the statutes of the law-givers. 

Europe regarded it as a fantastic experiment, for to 
its monarchies, so long accustomed to rule, a govern- 
ment by the people was a fabled Utopian dream, but the 
young republic has seen thrones totter, crowns fall, 
dynasties perish, kingdoms and empires blotted from 
the maps of the world, yet it has prospered until the 
thirteen struggling colonies, strung along the Atlantic 
seaboard, have become a nation that reaches from ocean 
to ocean, and forty-four stars, representing sovereign 
States, are emblazoned on its banner. 

As the needle seeks the North Star, the eyes of men 
sought the Star of Liberty in the West. 

The sea became a pathway for toilers of the old 
world, and the young republic welcomed, with open 
arms, the industrious children of Europe. 

The brain and brawn of Scotland, the enterprise and 
progressiveness of England, the generosity and fidelity 
of the Green Isle, the genius and gayety of France, the 
patient industry of the Rhine countries, the poetry and 
passion of Mediterranean lands, all contributed to make 
a type of humanity which had no equal since civiliza- 
tion dawned. 

The name "American"' became a synonym for in- 
genuity and shrewdness. It has given more to the 
world during its young life than any other nation. Its 
inventive genius has brought forth a multitudinous 
array of machines and devices, to increase the material 
comforts, and promote the productive energy of man- 
kind. 



ADDRESSES 221 

It has bound our cities together in speech, and sent 
the Hghtning under the seas with tidings to other lands. 
Its people are better governed, better housed, better 
clothed, and better fed than those of any other nation. 
Its railroads are faster, its educational facilities greater, 
its churches more numerous, its press more potential, 
its laws less onerous, and its intelligence on a higher 
plane than any other country under the sun ! 

Need we ask a reason for this? If we did, we should 
answer that it was due to the fact that the possibilities 
of human energies were not circumscribed, that the 
right of free speech has never been abridged, and that 
civil and religious liberty have gone hand in hand since 
the inauguration of the republic. 

The first amendment to the Constitution made them 
ever secure, and the whole trend of politics is to pre- 
serve them free and inviolate. Here, we have no fav- 
ored classes. No degenerate aristocracy draws its 
support from the labor of the people. No inflexible 
feeling of caste separates man from man. 

Equality and fraternity are predicated in the colors 
of that banner. 

The blue shield is the shield of Justice, the protecting 
aegis of our Commonwealth. 

The red is typical of universal brotherhood, the joyful 
harbinger of the time "when man to man the whole 
world o'er shall brothers be, for a' that !" 

The white is the emblem of purity and innocence, 
and the stars are the stars that lit the patriots on the 
road to freedom ! 

The man of patriotism looking on that flag, sees more 
than the red, white and blue bunting, studded with 
stars. The history of our country is transcribed on its 
folds. It commemorates the genesis of our Common- 
wealth, and the realization of the dreams of its 
founders ' 

Wherever the American flag floats men see the herald 
of the dawn of Liberty, and it bears the dreams, the 
hopes, the aspirations of humanity. 



222 ADDRESSES 

"The stars upon it were to the pining nations like 
the morning stars of God, and the stripes upon it were 
the beams of morning Hght !" 

It recalls memories of Lexington and Bunker Hill, 
of Ticonderoga and Princeton and Yorktown, names 
sacred to patriotic lips ! It swept the seas in the 
naval warfare of 1812, and waved triumphantly over 
Decatur, and Perry and Lawrence ! It was borne by 
blue-clad heroes, through the dreary Mexican marches 
at Chapultepec, at Cherubusco, at Vera Cruz and Mon- 
terey, and carried victory into the halls of the Monte- 
zumas ! 

It fired the country in the dark days of '61. It 
waved above the bloody fields of Gettysburg, of Chick- 
amauga, of Seven Pines, of Fair Oaks, of Shiloh, of 
Chancellorsville ; it passed through the three-days' bat- 
tle in the wilderness ; it went with Sherman, "singing 
the chorus from Atlanta to the sea ;" it floated above 
the great soldier who gave up his sword, and the greater 
soldier who secured it, under the historic apple tree at 
Appomattox. 

To preserve undimmed that shield of stars, men have 
fought, and bled, and died ! The young — the brave — 
the noble — the generous — the true-hearted — the chival- 
rous — the daring — a million strong went forth to battle. 
Some came marching home with the laureled crown of 
victory. But many sleep in nameless graves, under the 
Virginia pines, beneath the wild mosses of Louisiana 
lagoons, or in ''the dark and bloody ground" of 
Kentucky. 

Their work is done, they need no eulogy, they ask 
no tears ; a united country is their monument, but 
whenever we look upon that flag, the memories return, 
and it seems red with the blood of heroes ! 

The country of to-day asks no sacrifice of life and 
fortune, and yet there never was a time when the wel- 
fare of its people demanded more the exercise of that 
patriotic impulse, which defended it in the hour of 
danger. 



ADDRESSES 223 

Let us, therefore, on this day which marks an epoch 
in our country's Hfe, remembering the hours of advers- 
ity through which that flag has passed, resolve to pre- 
serve untarnished the fair fame of the country that 
loves it. Let us consecrate our lives to the sublime 
principles of the Constitution, for it has withstood tite 
ravages and assaults of Time, and patriotic men have 
clung to it as the only hope of political salvation. 
Under it we have prospered, and to move one jot from 
its principles is to turn from day to night, from light 
to darkness. While we are alive to the needs and 
demands of the time, there is hope for the future : 

"For God, Who buildeth high and wise, 

Nor pauses in His plan, 
Will take the sun out of the skies 
Ere Freedom out of man !" 

As the fathers of the republic could not dream of the 
exalted place it would attain in a century, so we cannot 
realize what it would be, a hundred years from to-day. 

The English speaking race is making the greatest 
progress, and with the mighty territory west of us, of 
which the natural wealth is yet unknown, our oppor- 
tunities for advancement are illimitable. 

"Wealth and prosperity are noble, but human liberty 
is magnificent !" 

The genius of free institution may sufTer temporary 
obscuration, but the hopes of humanity will cluster 
around this land, as the crowning glory of social de- 
velopment, the admiration and inspiration ot all that is 
good and true and beautiful in human hearts ! 

"Flag of the free heart's hope and home 

By angel hands to valor given, 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome 

And all thy hues were born in heaven ; 
Forever float that standard sheet 

While breathes the foe who falls before us. 
With freedom's soil beneath our feet. 

And freedom's banner streaming- o'er us !" 



224 POEMS 



at tJje €nb 



The sapphire zone of heaven shone, on that celestial 

day, 
When love and life, and storm and strife, and time had 

passed away — 
Except to them who leaned on Him, for now should 

He repay. 

They passed along with laugh and song, the gates were 

backward flung, 
The pearly gates, within which waits peace for the old 

and young; 
Within their eyes a glad surprise, and joy on every 

tongue. 

For such as these, what memories must mingle with 

their dreams — 
What scenes and sights of summer nights, when all a 

vision seems. 
Distorted by the wind and sky, like shadows seen in 

streams. 

One only stood; the multitude swift hurrying to share 
The joys prepared, if they had dared, would stop to 

see her there ; 
There was no face in all that place, that was so won- 
drous fair. 

There were no eyes in all the skies, so full of life and 

love. 
No star that shone in heaven's zone when all were 

fair above — 
But now their spheres were filled with tears, and gentle 

— like a dove. 



POEMS 225 

She saw them pass Hke waving grass, that bends before 

the breeze^ 
Why must she wait, soon will the gate be closed, but 

still she sees 
No angel stir to welcome her; was she then unlike 

these? 

All, all had gone, and pale and wan from waiting there 

so long, 
One said, "Why should the pure and good who mingle 

with the throng, 
Pass through the gate, while she must wait, who is 

not overstrong?" 

Her brow beneath the lilied wreath grew pale, but 

fairer far 
Than all the bloom, and the perfume where only lilies 

are — 
But she grew sad, the look she had, has vanished, like 

a star. 

For straightway came a man whose shame, the winds 

of earth had known, 
Abashed and meek, he strove to speak in penitential 

tone — 
An angel heard, without a word, he waved him from the 

throne. 

She (who was saved) now wept and craved for him, to 

whom she gave 
Her love below, though white as snow, her Hfe beyond 

the grave ; 
Unsullied there her bosom fair, now, would she be his 

slave ! 

"Oh, take." she said, "from ofT my head, this crown 

and give it him. 
How could I live, though You forgive, though saint and 

seraphim 
Sing in my praise, for all my days, if his were ever 

dim? 



226 POEMS 

"If he had come in sin and shame, would he have 
entered in? 

Yet I have prayed, and from me laid the garments of 
my sin ; 

Lord ! Lord !" she said, "upon my head, Thy punish- 
ment begin !" 

"My soul shall bear his bosom's share, if only that his 

eyes 
Look once on me, that look shall be my dream of 

paradise, 
Though banished far from heaven's bar, my heart shall 

haunt the skies. 

"Nay, let him pass, for I — alas ! my lot would not be 
sweet, 

If I should know that he would go where never we 
would meet, 

How could I smile, if all the while, his life was incom- 
plete?" 

No word said he, in misery, he stood the while apart. 
The angels gazed, and were amazed — and yet, why 

should they start? 
They should have known, so near the throne, a woman's 

faithful heart. 

They should have known, so near the throne, that 

though her heart should break, 
She would drink up life's bitter cup, and chains forever 

make. 
She would surrender all, and tender all, for dear love's 

sake! 

They should have known, so near the throne — but ah, 

they did not know; 
The stars are bright, and in their Hght, all things are 

seen below, 
But sad thoughts rest within the breast, that never 

face doth show! 



POEMS 227 

But lo ! He §poke, and then awoke their pity, for they 

knew 
That in His power, a gracious hour had come upon the 

two; 
Out on the walls, the echo falls, and all the trumpets 

blew. 

Ah, when He spoke, the sunshine broke, as after April 
rain — 

The ang-els heard, and at His word, flung back the 
gates again ; 

Ah, it was sweet to see them greet the passion-par- 
doned twain ! 

Ah, It was sweet to see them meet, and take each other's 

hand. 
From earthly stain washed clean again, before God's 

angels stand ; 
They felt in this, all heaven's bliss ; what more could 

they command? 

Then sang the stars ; through golden bars they heard 
the music roam, 

It rolled and told in words of gold — that song of heav- 
en's dome, 

"He takes the sinner to His arms, and brings the wan- 
derer home !" 




)UL 15 ^^^^ 



Mott tjp Committee 



The publication of this book was authorized by the 
New Jersey State Council of the Knights of Columbus 
a few weeks after the death of Mr. Barrett, in May, 
1907. During his lifetime Mr. Barrett's talents and 
genius were recognized by his friends, and the Commit- 
tee, to which the task of compiling this volume was 
assigned, found a great mass of material which required 
much labor and time to properly arrange for presenta- 
tion in permanent and appropriate form. The task was 
undertaken in a spirit of love. 

All Mr. Barrett's writings express the highest senti- 
ments and give evidence of his wonderful knowledge of 
humanity, his sympathy with his associates, his poetic 
love of the beauties of nature, his appreciation of the 
value of religion, and his sincere patriotism. 

In the hope that the work which Mr. Barrett aimed to 
accomplish for the benefit of his fellow man will be 
continued through the publication of some of his writ- 
ings, the Committee submit this volume, believing that 
it will find a welcome not only among those who were 
the friends of Mr. Barrett, but among all who love and 
enjoy pure sentiment, 

"* * * to fill our hearts with joy 
And happiness that no grief can alloy." 

JAMES J. HOPKINS, State Deputy. 

DANIEL A. DUGAN. 

M. W. HIGGINS. 

FRANK A. O'CONNOR. 

P. J. DOLAN. 

JAMES A. BURNS, 

Barrett Memorial Committee. 

New Jersey State Council, y ~ 

Knights of Columbus, -* y ,. 

Orange, N. J., July 14, 1908. 

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